THE   JOB 


THE  JOB 

AN  AMERICAN  NOVEL 


SINCLAIR  LEWIS 

1 


AUTHOR  OF 

MAIN  STREET, 
BABBITT,  ETC.' 


GROSSET&    DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS  NEW    YORK 

Made  b  the  United  States  of  America 


l4 


THE  JOB 

Copyright,  1917.  by  Harper  &  Brothers 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 

Published  February,  19*7 


3S2.3 


A. 


TO 

MY    WIFE 

WHO      HAS      MADE     "THE     JOB 
POSSIBLE     AND     LIFE     ITSELF 
QUITE      BEAUTIFUL  LY 
I  M  PROBABLE 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


Fart  I  ................ 

THE  CITY 


Part  II      ........ 

THE  OFFICE 


Part  IE    ...............    251 

MAN  AND  WOMAN 


THE   JOB 


CHAPTER  I 

CAPTAIN  LEW  GOLDEN  would  have  saved  any 
foreign  observer  a  great  deal  of  trouble  in  studying 
America.  He  was  an  almost  perfect  type  of  the  petty 
small-town  middle-class  lawyer.  He  lived  in  Panama, 
Pennsylvania.  He  had  never  been  "captain"  of  any 
thing  except  the  Crescent  Volunteer  Fire  Company,  but 
he  owned  the  title  because  he  collected  rents,  wrote  in 
surance,  and  meddled  with  lawsuits. 

He  carried  a  quite  visible  mustache-comb  and  wore  a 
collar,  but  no  tie.  On  warm  days  he  appeared  on  the 
street  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  and  discussed  the  comparative 
temperatures  of  the  past  thirty  years  with  Doctor  Smith 
and  the  Mansion  House  'bus-driver.  He  never  used  the 
word  "beauty"  except  in  reference  to  a  setter  dog — beauty 
of  words  or  music,  of  faith  or  rebellion,  did  not  exist  for 
him.  He  rather  fancied  large,  ambitious,  banal,  red-and- 
gold  sunsets,  but  he  merely  glanced  at  them  as  he  straggled 
home,  and  remarked  that  they  were  "nice."  He  be 
lieved  that  all  Parisians,  artists,  millionaires,  and  social 
ists  were  immoral.  His  entire  system  of  theology  was 
comprised  in  the  Bible,  which  he  never  read,  and  the 
Methodist  Church,  which  he  rarely  attended;  and  he 
desired  no  system  of  economics  beyond  the  current  plat- 

[3] 


THE    JOB 

Sartor  Resartus,  and  Ships  that  Pass  in  the  Night.  Her 
residue  of  knowledge  from  reading  them  was  a  disbelief 
in  Panama,  Pennsylvania. 

She  was  likely  never  to  be  anything  more  amazing  than 
a  mother  and  wife,  who  would  entertain  the  Honiton 
Embroidery  Circle  twice  a  year. 

Yet,  potentially,  Una  Golden  was  as  glowing  as  any 
princess  of  balladry.  She  was  waiting  for  the  fairy  prince, 
though  he  seemed  likely  to  be  nothing  more  decorative 
than  a  salesman  in  a  brown  derby.  She  was  fluid;  in 
determinate  as  a  moving  cloud. 

Although  Una  Golden  had  neither  piquant  prettiness 
nor  grave  handsomeness,  her  soft  littleness  made  people 
call  her  "Puss,"  and  want  to  cuddle  her  as  a  child  cuddles 
a  kitten.  If  you  noted  Una  at  all,  when  you  met  her,  you 
first  noted  her  gentle  face,  her  fine-textured  hair  of  faded 
gold,  and  her  rimless  eye-glasses  with  a  gold  chain  over 
her  ear.  These  glasses  made  a  business-like  center  to  her 
face;  you  felt  that  without  them  she  would  have  been  too 
childish.  Her  mouth  was  as  kind  as  her  spirited  eyes, 
but  it  drooped.  Her  body  was  so  femininely  soft  that  you 
regarded  her  as  rather  plump.  But  for  all  her  curving 
hips,  and  the  thick  ankles  which  she  considered  "com 
mon,"  she  was  rather  anemic.  Her  cheeks  were  round, 
not  rosy,  but  clear  and  soft;  her  lips  a  pale  pink.  Her 
chin  was  plucky  and  undimpled;  it  was  usually  spotted 
with  one  or  two  unimportant  eruptions,  which  she  kept 
so  well  covered  with  powder  that  they  were  never  notice 
able.  No  one  ever  thought  of  them  except  Una  herself, 
to  whom  they  were  tragic  blemishes  which  she  timorously 
examined  in  the  mirror  every  time  she  went  to  wash  her 
hands.  She  knew  that  they  were  the  result  of  the  in 
digestible  Golden  family  meals;  she  tried  to  take  comfort 
by  noticing  their  prevalence  among  other  girls;  but  they 

[6] 


THE    JOB 

kept  startling  her  anew;  she  would  secretly  touch  them 
with  a  worried  forefinger,  and  wonder  whether  men  were 
able  to  see  anything  else  in  her  face. 

You  remembered  her  best  as  she  hurried  through  the 
street  in  her  tan  mackintosh  with  its  yellow  velveteen 
collar  turned  high  up,  and  one  of  those  modest  round  hats 
to  which  she  was  addicted.  For  then  you  were  aware 
only  of  the  pale  -  gold  hair  fluffing  round  her  school 
mistress  eye-glasses,  her  gentle  air  of  respectability,  and 
her  undistinguished  littleness. 

She  trusted  in  the  village  ideal  of  virginal  vacuousness 
as  the  type  of  beauty  which  most  captivated  men,  though 
every  year  she  was  more  shrewdly  doubtful  of  the  divine 
superiority  of  these  men.    That  a  woman's  business  i 
life  was  to  remain  respectable  and  to  secure  a  man,  and     / 
consequent  security,  was  her  unmeditated  faith — till,  in    / 
1905,  when  Una  was  twenty-four  years  old,  her  father  died..^ 


§2 

Captain  Golden  left  to  wife  and  daughter  a  good  name, 
a  number  of  debts,  and  eleven  hundred  dollars  in  lodge 
insurance.  The  funeral  was  scarcely  over  before  neigh 
bors — the  furniture  man,  the  grocer,  the  polite  old  homeo 
pathic  doctor — began  to  come  in  with  bland  sympathy 
and  large  bills.  When  the  debts  were  ail  cleared  away  the 
Goldens  had  only  six  hundred  dollars  and  no  income  be 
yond  the  good  name.  All  right-minded  persons  agree 
that  a  good  name  is  precious  beyond  rubies,  but  Una 
would  have  preferred  less  honor  and  more  rubies. 

She  was  so  engaged  in  comforting  her  mother  that  she 
scarcely  grieved  for  her  father.  She  took  charge  of  every 
thing — money,  house,  bills. 

Mrs.  Golden  had  been  overwhelmed  by  a  realization 

[7] 


THE    JOB 

that,  however  slack  and  shallow  Captain  Golden  had 
been,  he  had  adored  her  and  encouraged  her  in  her 
gentility,  her  pawing  at  culture.  With  an  emerging  sin 
cerity,  Mrs.  Golden  mourned  him,  now,  missed  his 
gossipy  presence — and  at  the  same  time  she  was  alive 
to  the  distinction  it  added  to  her  slim  gracefulness  to 
wear  black  and  look  wan.  She  sobbed  on  Una's  shoulder; 
she  said  that  she  was  lonely;  and  Una  sturdily  comforted 
her  and  looked  for  work. 

One  of  the  most  familiar  human  combinations  in  the 
world  is  that  of  unemployed  daughter  and  widowed 
mother.  A  thousand  times  you  have  seen  the  jobless 
daughter  devoting  all  of  her  curiosity,  all  of  her  youth, 
to  a  widowed  mother  of  small  pleasantries,  a  small  income, 
and  a  shabby  security.  Thirty  comes,  and  thirty-five. 
The  daughter  ages  steadily.  At  forty  she  is  as  old  as  her 
unwithering  mother.  Sweet  she  is,  and  pathetically 
hopeful  of  being  a  pianist  or  a  nurse;  never  quite  recon 
ciled  to  spinsterhood,  though  she  often  laughs  about  it; 
often,  by  her  insistence  that  she  is  an  "old  maid,"  she 
makes  the  thought  of  her  barren  age  embarrassing  to 
others.  The  mother  is  sweet,  too,  and  "wants  to  keep  in 
touch  with  her  daughter's  interests,"  only,  her  daughter 
has  no  interests.  Had  the  daughter  revolted  at  eighteen, 
had  she  stubbornly  insisted  that  mother  either  accompany 
her  to  parties  or  be  content  to  stay  alone,  had  she  ac 
quired  "interests,"  she  might  have  meant  something  in 
the  new  generation;  but  the  time  for  revolt  passes,  how 
ever  much  the  daughter  may  long  to  seem  young  among 
younger  women.  The  mother  is  usually  unconscious  of  her 
selfishness;  she  would  be  unspeakably  horrified  if  some 
brutal  soul  told  her  that  she  was  a  vampire.  Chance, 
chance  and  waste,  rule  them  both,  and  the  world  passes 
by  while  the  mother  has  her  games  of  cards  with  daughter, 

[8] 


THE    JOB 

and  deems  herself  unselfish  because  now  and  then  she 
lets  daughter  join  a  party  (only  to  hasten  back  to  mother), 
and  even  "  wonders  why  daughter  doesn't  take  an  interest 
in  girls  her  own  age."  That  ugly  couple  on  the  porch 
of  the  apple-sauce  and  wash-pitcher  boarding-house — the 
mother  a  mute,  dwarfish  punchinello,  and  the  daughter  a 
drab  woman  of  forty  with  a  mole,  a  wart,  a  silence. 
That  charming  mother  of  white  hair  and  real  lace  with 
the  well-groomed  daughter.  That  comfortable  mother  at 
home  and  daughter  in  an  office,  but  with  no  suitors,  no 
ambition  beyond  the  one  at  home.  They  are  all  examples 
of  the  mother-and-daughter  phenomenon,  that  most 
touching,  most  destructive  example  of  selfless  unselfish 
ness,  which  robs  all  the  generations  to  come,  because 
mother  has  never  been  trained  to  endure  the  long,  long 
thoughts  of  solitude;  because  she  sees  nothing  by  herself, 
and  within  herself  hears  no  diverting  voice.  .  .  . 

There  were  many  such  mothers  and  daughters  in 
Panama.  If  they  were  wealthy,  daughter  collected  rents 
and  saw  lawyers  and  belonged  to  a  club  and  tried  to  keep 
youthful  at  parties.  If  middle-class,  daughter  taught 
school,  almost  invariably.  If  poor,  mother  did  the  wash 
ing  and  daughter  collected  it.  So  it  was  marked  down  for 
Una  that  she  should  be  a  teacher. 

Not  that  she  wanted  to  be  a  teacher!  After  graduating 
from  high  school,  she  had  spent  two  miserable  terms  of 
teaching  in  the  small  white  district  school,  four  miles  out 
on  the  Bethlehem  Road.  She  hated  the  drive  out  and 
back,  the  airless  room  and  the  foul  outbuildings,  the 
shy,  stupid,  staring  children,  the  jolly  little  arithmetical 
problems  about  wall-paper,  piles  of  lumber,  the  amount 
of  time  that  notoriously  inefficient  workmen  will  take  to 
do  "a  certain  piece  of  work."  Una  was  honest  enough  to 
know  that  she  was  not  an  honest  teacher,  that  she  neither 

2  [9] 


THE    JOB 

loved  masses  of  other  people's  children  nor  had  any  ideals 
of  developing  the  new  generation.  But  she  had  to  make 
money.  Of  course  she  would  teach! 

When  she  talked  over  affairs  with  her  tearful  mother, 
Mrs.  Golden  always  ended  by  suggesting,  "I  wonder  if 
perhaps  you  couldn't  go  back  to  school-teaching  again. 
Everybody  said  you  were  so  successful.  And  maybe  I 
could  get  some  needlework  to  do.  I  do  want  to  help  so 
much." 

Mrs.  Golden  did,  apparently,  really  want  to  help.  But 
she  never  suggested  anything  besides  teaching,  and  she 
went  on  recklessly  investing  in  the  nicest  mourning. 
Meantime  Una  tried  to  find  other  work  in  Panama. 

Seen  from  a  balloon,  Panama  is  merely  a  mole  on  the 
long  hill-slopes.  But  to  Una  its  few  straggly  streets  were 
a  whole  cosmos.  She  knew  somebody  in  every  single 
house.  She  knew  just  where  the  succotash,  the  cake- 
boxes,  the  clothes-lines,  were  kept  in  each  of  the  grocery- 
stores,  and  on  market  Saturdays  she  could  wait  on  herself. 
She  summed  up  the  whole  town  and  its  possibilities;  and 
she  wondered  what  opportunities  the  world  out  beyond 
Panama  had  for  her.  She  recalled  two  trips  to  Philadelphia 
and  one  to  Harrisburg.  She  made  out  a  list  of  openings 
with  such  methodical  exactness  as  she  devoted  to  keeping 
the  dwindling  lodge  insurance  from  disappearing  alto 
gether.  Hers  was  no  poetic  outreach  like  that  of  the 
young  genius  who  wants  to  be  off  for  Bohemia.  It  was  a 
question  of  earning  money  in  the  least  tedious  way.  Una 
was  facing  the  feminist  problem,  without  knowing  what 
the  word  "feminist"  meant. 

This  was  her  list  of  fair  fields  of  fruitful  labor: 

She  could — and  probably  would — teach  in  some  hen 
coop  of  pedagogy. 

She  could  marry,  but  no  one  seemed  to  want  her,  except 

[10] 


THE    JOB 

old  Henry  Carson,  the  widower,  with  cartarrh  and  three 
children,  who  called  on  her  and  her  mother  once  in  two 
weeks,  and  would  propose  whenever  she  encouraged  him 
to.  This  she  knew  scientifically.  She  had  only  to  sit 
beside  him  on  the  sofa,  let  her  hand  drop  down  beside  his. 
But  she  positively  and  ungratefully  didn't  want  to  marry 
Henry  and  listen  to  his  hawking  and  his  grumbling  for 
the  rest  of  her  life.  Sooner  or  later  one  of  The  Boys  might 
propose  But  in  a  small  town  it  was  all  a  gamble.  There 
weren't  so  very  many  desirable  young  men — most  of  the 
energetic  ones  went  off  to  Philadelphia  and  New  York. 
True  that  Jennie  McTevish  had  been  married  at  thirty- 
one,  when  everybody  had  thought  she  was  hopelessly  an 
old  maid.  Yet  here  was  Birdie  Mayberry  unmarried  at 
thirty-four,  no  one  could  ever  understand  why,  for  she  had 
been  the  prettiest  and  jolliest  girl  in  town.  Una  crossed 
blessed  matrimony  off  the  list  as  a  commercial  prospect. 

She  could  go  off  and  study  music,  law,  medicine,  elocu 
tion,  or  any  of  that  amazing  hodge-podge  of  pursuits 
which  are  permitted  to  small-town  women.  But  she  really 
couldn't  afford  to  do  any  of  these;  and,  besides,  she  had 
no  talent  for  music  of  a  higher  grade  than  Sousa  and 
Victor  Herbert;  she  was  afraid  of  lawyers;  blood  made 
her  sick;  and  her  voice  was  too  quiet  for  the  noble  art  of 
elocution  as  practised  by  several  satin-waisted,  semi- 
artistic  ladies  who  "gave  readings"  of  Enoch  Arden  and 
Evangeline  before  the  Panama  ,  Study  Circle  and  the 
Panama  Annual  Chautauqua. 

She  could  have  a  job  selling  dry-goods  behind  the 
counter  in  the  Hub  Store,  but  that  meant  loss  of  caste. 

She  could  teach  dancing — but  she  couldn't  dance  par 
ticularly  well.  And  that  was  all  that  she  could  do. 

She  had  tried  to  find  work  as  office-woman  for  Dr. 
Mayberry,  the  dentist;  in  the  office  of  the  Panama  Wood- 

[11] 


THE    JOB 

Turning  Company;  in  the  post-office;  as  lofty  enthroned 
cashier  for  the  Hub  Store;  painting  place-cards  and  mak 
ing  "fancy- work"  for  the  Art  Needlework  Exchange. 

The  job  behind  the  counter  in  the  Hub  Store  was  the 
only  one  offered  her. 

"If  I  were  only  a  boy,"  sighed  Una,  "I  could  go  to  work 
in  the  hardware-store  or  on  the  railroad  or  anywhere,  and 
not  lose  respectability.  Oh,  I  hate  being  a  woman." 


Una  had  been  trying  to  persuade  her  father's  old-time 
rival,  Squire  Updegraff,  the  real-estate  and  insurance  man, 
that  her  experience  wTith  Captain  Golden  would  make  her 
a  perfect  treasure  in  the  office.  Squire  Updegraff  had 
leaped  up  at  her  entrance,  and  blared,  "Well,  well,  and 
how  is  the  little  girl  making  it?"  He  had  set  out  a  chair 
for  her  and  held  her  hand.  But  he  knew  that  her  only 
experience  with  her  father's  affairs  had  been  an  effort  to 
balance  Captain  Golden's  account-books,  which  were 
works  of  genius  in  so  far  as  they  were  composed  according 
to  the  inspirational  method.  So  there  was  nothing  very 
serious  in  their  elaborate  discussion  of  giving  Una  a 
job. 

It  was  her  last  hope  in  Panama.  She  went  disconso 
lately  down  the  short  street,  between  the  two-story  build 
ings  and  the  rows  of  hitched  lumber- wagons.  Nellie  Page, 
the  town  belle,  tripping  by  in  canvas  sneakers  and  a  large 
red  hair-ribbon,  shouted  at  her,  and  Charlie  Martindale, 
of  the  First  National  Bank,  nodded  to  her,  but  these  ex 
quisites  were  too  young  for  her;  they  danced  too  well  and 
laughed  too  easily.  The  person  who  stopped  her  for  a 
long  curbstone  conference  about  the  weather,  while  most 
of  the  town  observed  and  gossiped,  was  the  fateful  Henry 

[12] 


THE   JOB 

Carson.  The  village  sun  was  unusually  blank  and  hard 
on  Henry's  bald  spot  to-day.  Heavens!  she  cried  to  her 
self,  in  almost  hysterical  protest,  would  she  have  to  marry 
Henry? 

Miss  Mattie  Pugh  drove  by,  returning  from  district 
school.  Miss  Mattie  had  taught  at  Clark's  Crossing  for 
seventeen  years,  had  grown  meek  and  meager  and  hope 
less.  Heavens!  thought  Una,  would  she  have  to  be  shut 
into  the  fetid  barn  of  a  small  school  unless  she  married 
Henry? 

"I  won't  be  genteel!  I'll  work  in  The  Hub  or  any  place 
first!"  Una  declared.  While  she  trudged  home — a  pleas 
ant,  inconspicuous,  fluffy-haired  young  woman,  undra- 
matic  as  a  field  daisy — a  cataract  of  protest  poured  through 
her.  All  the  rest  of  her  life  she  would  have  to  meet  that 
doddering  old  Mr.  Mosely,  who  was  unavoidably  bearing 
down  on  her  now,  and  be  held  by  him  in  long,  meaningless 
talks.  And  there  was  nothing  amusing  to  do !  She  was  so 
frightfully  bored.  She  suddenly  hated  the  town,  hated 
every  evening  she  would  have  to  spend  there,  reading 
newspapers  and  playing  cards  with  her  mother,  and 
dreading  a  call  from  Mr.  Henry  Carson. 

She  wanted — wanted  some  one  to  love,  to  talk  with. 
Why  had  she  discouraged  the  beautiful  Charlie  Martin- 
dale,  the  time  he  had  tried  to  kiss  her  at  a  dance?  Charlie 
was  fatuous,  but  he  was  young,  and  she  wanted,  yes,  yes ! 
that  was  it,  she  wanted  youth,  she  who  was  herself  so 
young.  And  she  would  grow  old  here  unless  some  one, 
one  of  these  godlike  young  men,  condescended  to  recog 
nize  her.  Grow  old  among  these  streets  like  piles  of  lum 
ber. 

She  charged  into  the  small,  white,  ambling  Golden 
house,  with  its  peculiar  smell  of  stale  lamb  gravy,  and 
on  the  old  broken  couch — where  her  father  had  snored  all 

[13] 


THE   JOB 

through  every  bright  Sunday  afternoon — she  sobbed 
feebly. 

She  raised  her  head  to  consider  a  noise  overhead — the 
faint,  domestic  thunder  of  a  sewing-machine  shaking  the 
walls  with  its  rhythm.  The  machine  stopped.  She  heard 
the  noise  of  scissors  dropped  on  the  floor — the  most  stuffily 
domestic  sound  in  the  world.  The  airless  house  was 
crushing  her.  She  sprang  up — and  then  she  sat  down 
again.  There  was  no  place  to  which  she  could  flee.  Henry 
Carson  and  the  district  school  were  menacing  her.  And 
meantime  she  had  to  find  out  what  her  mother  was  sewing 
— whether  she  had  again  been  wasting  money  in  buying 
mourning. 

"Poor,  poor  little  mother,  working  away  happy  up 
there,  and  I've  got  to  go  and  scold  you,"  Una  agonized. 
"Oh,  I  want  to  earn  money,  I  want  to  earn  real  money 
for  you." 

She  saw  a  quadrangle  of  white  on  the  table,  behind  a 
book.  She  pounced  on  it.  It  was  a  letter  from  Mrs. 
Sessions,  and  Una  scratched  it  open  excitedly. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Albert  Sessions,  of  Panama,  had  gone  to 
New  York.  Mr.  Sessions  was  in  machinery.  They  liked 
New  York.  They  lived  in  a  flat  and  went  to  theaters. 
Mrs.  Sessions  was  a  pillowy  soul  whom  Una  trusted. 

"Why  don't  you,"  wrote  Mrs.  Sessions,  "if  you  don't 
find  the  kind  of  work  you  want  in  Panama,  think  about 
coming  up  to  New  York  and  taking  stenography?  There 
are  lots  of  chances  here  for  secretaries,  etc." 

Una  carefully  laid  down  the  letter.  She  went  over 
and  straightened  her  mother's  red  wool  slippers.  She 
wanted  to  postpone  for  an  exquisite  throbbing  moment 
the  joy  of  announcing  to  herself  that  she  had  made  a 
decision. 

She  would  go  to  New  York,  become  a  stenographer,  a 

[14] 


THE   JOB 

secretary  to  a  corporation  president,  a  rich  woman,  free, 
responsible. 

The  fact  of  making  this  revolutionary  decision  so  quick 
ly  gave  her  a  feeling  of  power,  of  already  being  a  business 
woman. 

She  galloped  up-stairs  to  the  room  where  her  mother 
was  driving  the  sewing-machine. 

"Mumsie!"  she  cried,  "we're  going  to  New  York! 
I'm  going  to  learn  to  be  a  business  woman,  and  the  little 
mother  will  be  all  dressed  in  satin  and  silks,  and  dine  on 
what-is-it  and  peaches  and  cream — the  poem  don't  come 
out  right,  but,  oh,  my  little  mother,  we're  going  out  ad 
venturing,  we  are!" 

She  plunged  down  beside  her  mother,  burrowed  her 
head  in  her  mother's  lap,  kissed  that  hand  whose  skin 
was  like  thinnest  wrinkly  tissue-paper. 

"Why,  my  little  daughter,  what  is  it?  Has  some  one 
sent  for  us?  Is  it  the  letter  from  Emma  Sessions?  What 
did  she  say  in  it?" 

"She  suggested  it,  but  we  are  going  up  independent." 

"But  can  we  afford  to?  ...  I  would  like  the  draymas  and 
art-galleries  and  all!" 

"We  will  afford  to!    We'll  gamble,  for  once!" 


CHAPTER  H 

UNA  GOLDEN  had  never  realized  how  ugly  and  petty 
were  the  streets  of  Panama  till  that  evening  when 
she  walked  down  for  the  mail,  spurning  the  very  dust  on 
the  sidewalks — and  there  was  plenty  to  spurn,J  An  old 
mansion  of  towers  and  scalloped  shingles,  broken-shuttered 
now  and  unpainted,  with  a  row  of  brick  stores  marching 
up  on  its  once  leisurely  lawn.  The  town-hall,  a  square 
wooden  barn  with  a  sagging  upper  porch,  from  which  the 
mayor  would  presumably  have  made  proclamations,  had 
there  ever  been  anything  in  Panama  to  proclaim  about. 
Staring  loafers  in  front  of  the  Girard  House.  To  Una 
there  was  no  romance  in  the  sick  mansion,  no  kindly 
democracy  in  the  village  street,  no  bare  freedom  in  the 
hills  beyond.  She  was  not  much  to  blame;  she  was  a 
creature  of  action  to  whom  this  constricted  town  had 
denied  all  action  except  sweeping. 

She  felt  so  strong  now — she  had  expected  a  struggle  in 
persuading  her  mother  to  go  to  New  York,  but  acquies 
cence  had  been  easy.  Una  had  an  exultant  joy,  a  little 
youthful  and  cruel,  in  meeting  old  Henry  Carson  and  tell 
ing  him  that  she  was  going  away,  that  she  "didn't  know 
for  how  long;  maybe  for  always."  So  hopelessly  did  he 
stroke  his  lean  brown  neck,  which  was  never  quite  clean 
shaven,  that  she  tried  to  be  kind  to  him.  She  promised  to 
write.  But  she  felt,  when  she  had  left  him,  as  though  she 
had  just  been  released  from  prison.  To  live  with  him,  to 
give  him  the  right  to  claw  at  her  with  those  desiccated 

[16] 


THE    JOB 

hands — she  imagined  it  with  a  vividness  which  shocked 
her,  all  the  while  she  was  listening  to  his  halting  regrets. 

A  dry,  dusty  September  wind  whirled  down  the  village 
street.  It  choked  her. 

There  would  be  no  dusty  winds  in  New  York,  but  only 
mellow  breezes  over  marble  palaces  of  efficient  business. 
No  Henry  Carsons,  but  slim,  alert  business  men,  young  of 
eye  and  light  of  tongue. 

§2  .      f 

Una  Golden  had  expected  to  thrill  to  her  first  sight  of 
the  New  York  sky-line,  crossing  on  the  ferry  in  mid- 
afternoon,  but  it  was  so  much  like  all  the  post-card  views 
of  it,  so  stolidly  devoid  of  any  surprises,  that  she  merely 
remarked,  "Oh  yes,  there  it  is,  that's  where  I'll  be,"  and 
turned  to  tuck  her  mother  into  a  ferry  seat  and  count 
the  suit-cases  and  assure  her  that  there  was  no  danger  of 
pickpockets.  Though,  as  the  ferry  sidled  along  the  land, 
passed  an  English  liner,  and  came  close  enough  to  the 
shore  so  that  she  could  see  the  people  who  actually  lived 
in  the  state  of  blessedness  called  New  York,  Una  sud 
denly  hugged  her  mother  and  cried,  "Oh,  little  mother, 
we're  going  to  live  here  and  do  things  together — every 
thing." 

The  familiar  faces  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Albert  Sessions  were 
awaiting  them  at  the  end  of  the  long  cavernous  walk  from 
the  ferry-boat,  and  New  York  immediately  became  a  blur 
of  cabs,  cobblestones,  bales  of  cotton,  long  vistas  of  very 
dirty  streets,  high  buildings,  surface  cars,  elevateds,  shop 
windows  that  seemed  dark  and  foreign,  and  everywhere 
such  a  rush  of  people  as  made  her  feel  insecure,  cling  to 
the  Sessionses,  and  try  to  ward  off  the  dizziness  of  the 
swirl  of  new  impressions.  She  was  daunted  for  a  moment, 

[17] 


THE    JOB 

but  she  rejoiced  in  the  conviction  that  she  was  going  to  lik$ 
this  madness  of  multiform  energy. 

The  Sessionses  lived  in  a  flat  on  Amsterdam  Avenue 
near  Ninety-sixth  Street.  They  all  went  up  from  Cort- 
landt  Street  in  the  Subway,  which  was  still  new  and 
miraculous  in  1905.  For  five  minutes  Una  was  terrified 
by  the  jam  of  people,  the  blind  roar  through  tunneled 
darkness,  the  sense  of  being  powerlessly  hurled  forward 
in  a  mass  of  ungovernable  steel.  But  nothing  particularly 
fatal  happened;  and  she  grew  proud  to  be  part  of  this 
black  energy,  and  contentedly  swung  by  a  strap. 

When  they  reached  the  Sessionses'  flat  and  fell  upon  the 
gossip  of  Panama,  Pennsylvania,  Una  was  absent-minded 
— except  when  the  Sessionses  teased  her  about  Henry 
Carson  and  Charlie  Martindale.  The  rest  of  the  time, 
curled  up  on  a  black-walnut  couch  which  she  had  known 
for  years  in  Panama,  and  which  looked  plaintively  rustic 
here  in  New  York,  Una  gave  herself  up  to  impressions  of 
the  city:  the  voices  of  many  children  down  on  Amsterdam 
Avenue,  the  shriek  of  a  flat- wheeled  surface  car,  the  sturdy 
pound  of  trucks,  horns  of  automobiles;  the  separate 
sounds  scarcely  distinguishable  in  a  whirr  which  seemed 
visible  as  a  thick,  gray-yellow  dust-cloud. 

Her  mother  went  to  lie  down;  the  Sessionses  (after  an 
elaborate  explanation  of  why  they  did  not  keep  a  maid) 
began  to  get  dinner,  and  Una  stole  out  to  see  New  York 
by  herself. 

It  all  seemed  different,  at  once  more  real  and  not  so 
jumbled  together,  now  that  she  used  her  own  eyes  instead 
of  the  guidance  of  that  knowing  old  city  bird,  Mr.  Albert 
Sessions. 

Amsterdam  Avenue  was,  even  in  the  dusk  of  early 
autumn,  disappointing  in  its  walls  of  yellow  flat-buildings 
cluttered  with  fire-escapes,  the  first  stories  all  devoted  to 

[18] 


THE   JOB 

the  same  sort  of  shops  over  and  over  again — delicates 
sens,  laundries,  barber-shops,  saloons,  groceries,  lunch 
rooms.  She  ventured  down  a  side-street,  toward  a  furnace- 
glow  of  sunset.  West  End  Avenue  was  imposing  to  her 
in  its  solid  brick  and  graystone  houses,  and  pavements 
milky  in  the  waning  light.  Then  came  a  block  of  expen 
sive  apartments.  She  was  finding  the  city  of  golden 
rewards.  Frivolous  curtains  hung  at  windows;  in  a  huge 
apartment-house  hall  she  glimpsed  a  negro  attendant  in 
a  green  uniform  with  a  monkey-cap  and  close-set  rows  of 
brass  buttons;  she  had  a  hint  of  palms — or  what  looked 
like  palms;  of  marble  and  mahogany  and  tiling,  and  a 
flash  of  people  in  evening  dress.  In  her  plain,  "sensible" 
suit  Una  tramped  past.  She  was  unenvious,  because  she 
was  going  to  have  all  these  things  soon. 

Out  of  a  rather  stodgy  vision  of  silk  opera  wraps  and 
suitors  who  were  like  floor-walkers,  she  came  suddenly 
out  on  Riverside  Drive  and  the  splendor  of  the  city. 

A  dull  city  of  straight-front  unvaried  streets  is  New 
York.  But  she  aspires  in  her  sky-scrapers;  she  dreams  a 
garden  dream  of  Georgian  days  in  Gramercy  Park;  and 
on  Riverside  Drive  she  bares  her  exquisite  breast  and 
wantons  in  beauty.  Here  she  is  sophisticated,  yet  eager, 
comparable  to  Paris  and  Vienna;  and  here  Una  exulted. 

Down  a  polished  roadway  that  reflected  every  light 
rolled  smart  motors,  with  gay  people  in  the  sort  of  clothes  •; 
she  had  studied  in  advertisements.  The  driveway  was 
bordered  with  mist  wreathing  among  the  shrubs.  Above 
Una  shouldered  the  tremendous  facades  of  gold-corniced 
apartment-houses.  Across  the  imperial  Hudson  every 
thing  was  enchanted  by  the  long,  smoky  afterglow, 
against  which  the  silhouettes  of  dome  and  tower  and  fac 
tory  chimney  stood  out  like  an  Orient  city. 

"Oh,  I  want  all  this — it's  mine!  .  .  .  An  apartment  up 

[19] 


THE   JOB 

there — a  big,  broad  window-seat,  and  look  out  on  all  this. 
Oh,  dear  God,"  she  was  unconsciously  praying  to  her 
vague  Panama  Wesley  Methodist  Church  God,  who  gave 
you  things  if  you  were  good,  "I  will  work  for  all  this.  .  .  . 
And  for  the  little  mother,  dear  mother  that's  never  had  a 
chance." 

In  the  step  of  the  slightly  stolid  girl  there  was  a  new 
lightness,  a  new  ecstasy  in  walking  rapidly  through  the 
stirring  New  York  air,  as  she  turned  back  to  the  Sessionses' 
flat. 

§3 

Later,  when  the  streets  fell  into  order  and  became  nor 
mal,  Una  could  never  quite  identify  the  vaudeville  theater 
to  which  the  Sessionses  took  them  that  evening.  The 
gold-and-ivory  walls  of  the  lobby  seemed  to  rise  immeas 
urably  to  a  ceiling  flashing  with  frescoes  of  light  lovers 
in  blue  and  fluffy  white,  mincing  steps  and  ardent  kisses 
and  flaunting  draperies.  They  climbed  a  tremendous 
arching  stairway  of  marble,  upon  which  her  low  shoes 
clattered  with  a  pleasant  sound.  They  passed  niches 
hung  with  heavy  curtains  of  plum-colored  velvet,  framing 
the  sly  peep  of  plaster  fauns,  and  came  out  on  a  balcony 
stretching  as  wide  as  the  sea  at  twilight,  looking  down  on 
thousands  of  people  in  the  orchestra  below,  up  at  a  vast 
golden  dome  lighted  by  glowing  spheres  hung  with  dia 
monds,  forward  at  a  towering  proscenic  arch  above  which 
slim,  nude  goddesses  in  bas-relief  floated  in  a  languor 
which  obsessed  her,  set  free  the  bare  brown  laughing 
nymph  that  hides  in  every  stiff  Una  in  semi-mourning. 

Nothing  so  diverting  as  that  program  has  ever  been 
witnessed.  The  funny  men  with  their  solemn  mock- 
battles,  their  extravagance  in  dress,  their  galloping  wit, 
made  her  laugh  till  she  wanted  them  to  stop.  The  singers 

[20] 


THE   JOB 

were  bell- voiced;  the  dancers  graceful  as  clouds,  and  just 
touched  with  a  beguiling  naughtiness;  and  in  the  playlet 
there  was  a  chill  intensity  that  made  her  shudder  when 
the  husband  accused  the  wife  whom  he  suspected,  oh, 
so  absurdly,  as  Una  indignantly  assured  herself. 

The  entertainment  was  pure  magic,  untouched  by 
human  clumsiness,  rare  and  spellbound  as  a  stilly  after 
noon  in  oak  woods  by  a  lake. 

They  went  to  a  marvelous  cafe,  and  Mr.  Sessions  as 
tounded  them  by  the  urbanity  with  which  he  hurried 
captains  and  waiters  and  'bus-boys,  and  ordered  lobster 
and  coffee,  and  pretended  that  he  was  going  to  be  wicked 
and  have  wine  and  cigarettes. 

Months  afterward,  when  she  was  going  to  vaudeville 
by  herself,  Una  tried  to  identify  the  theater  of  wizardry, 
but  she  never  could.  The  Sessionses  couldn't  remember 
which  theater  it  was;  they  thought  it  was  the  Pitt,  but 
surely  they  must  have  been  mistaken,  for  the  Pitt  was  a 
shanty  daubed  with  grotesque  nudes,  rambling  and  pre 
tentious,  with  shockingly  amateurish  programs.  And 
afterward,  on  the  occasion  or  two  when  they  went  out 
to  dinner  with  the  Sessionses,  it  seemed  to  Una  that  Mr. 
Sessions  was  provincial  in  restaurants,  too  deprecatingly 
friendly  with  the  waiters,  too  hesitating  about  choosing 
dinner. 


Whiteside  and  Schleusner's  College  of  Commerce,  where 
Una  learned  the  art  of  business,  occupied  only  five  shabby 
rooms  of  crepuscular  windows  and  perpetually  dusty 
corners,  and  hard,  glistening  wall-paint,  in  a  converted 
(but  not  sanctified)  old  dwelling-house  on  West  Eighteenth 
Street.  The  faculty  were  six :  Mr.  Whiteside,  an  elaborate 
pomposity  who  smoothed  his  concrete  brow  as  though  he 

[21] 


THE   JOB 

had  a  headache,  and  took  obvious  pride  in  being  able  tc 
draw  birds  with  Spencerian  strokes.  Mr.  Schleusner,  whc 
was  small  and  vulgar  and  declasse  and  really  knew  some 
thing  about  business.  A  shabby  man  like  a  broken-down 
bookkeeper,  silent  and  diligent  and  afraid.  A  towering 
man  with  a  red  face,  who  kept  licking  his  lips  with  a  smal] 
red  triangle  of  tongue,  and  taught  English — commercia] 
college  English — in  a  bombastic  voice  of  finicky  correct 
ness,  and  always  smelled  of  cigar  smoke.  An  active  young 
Jewish  New-Yorker  of  wonderful  black  hair,  elfin  face, 
tilted  hat,  and  smart  clothes,  who  did  something  on  the 
side  in  real  estate.  Finally,  a  thin  widow,  who  was  sc 
busy  and  matter-of-fact  that  she  was  no  more  individu 
alized  than  a  street-car.  Any  one  of  them  was  considered 
competent  to  teach  any  "line,"  and  among  them  they 
ground  out  instruction  in  shorthand,  typewriting,  book 
keeping,  English  grammar,  spelling,  composition  (with 
a  special  view  to  the  construction  of  deceptive  epistles), 
and  commercial  geography.  Once  or  twice  a  week,  lan 
guage-masters  from  a  linguistic  mill  down  the  street  were 
had  in  to  chatter  the  more  vulgar  phrases  of  French,  Ger 
man,  and  Spanish. 

A  cluttered,  wheezy  omnibus  of  a  school,  but  in  it  Una 
rode  to  spacious  and  beautiful  hours  of  learning.  It  was 
even  more  to  her  than  is  the  art-school  to  the  yearner 
who  has  always  believed  that  she  has  a  talent  for  paint 
ing;  for  the  yearner  has,  even  as  a  child,  been  able  to 
draw  and  daub  and  revel  in  the  results;  while  for  Una 
this  was  the  first  time  in  her  life  when  her  labor  seemed  to 
count  for  something.  Her  school-teaching  had  been  a 
mere  time-filler.  Now  she  was  at  once  the  responsible 
head  of  the  house  and  a  seer  of  the  future. 

Most  of  the  girls  in  the  school  learned  nothing  but 
shorthand  and  typewriting,  but  to  these  Una  added 

[22] 


THE    JOB 

English  grammar,  spelling,  and  letter-composition.  After 
breakfast  at  the  little  flat  which  she  had  taken  with  her 
mother,  she  fled  to  the  school.  She  drove  into  her  books, 
she  delighted  in  the  pleasure  of  her  weary  teachers  when 
she  snapped  out  a  quick  answer  to  questions,  or  typed  a 
page  correctly,  or  was  able  to  remember  the  shorthand 
symbol  for  a  difficult  word  like  "psychologize." 

Her  belief  in  the  sacredness  of  the  game  was  boundless. 


CHAPTER  HI 

T71XCEPT  for  the  young  man  in  the  bank,  the  new 
JL-J  young  man  in  the  hardware  -  store,  and  the  pro 
prietors  of  the  new  Broadway  Clothing  Shop,  Una  had 
known  most  of  the  gallants  in  Panama,  Pennsylvania, 
from  knickerbocker  days;  she  remembered  their  bony, 
boyish  knees  and  their  school-day  whippings  too  well  to 
be  romantic  about  them.  But  in  the  commercial  college 
she  was  suddenly  associated  with  seventy  entirely  new 
and  interesting  males.  So  brief  were  the  courses,  so  ir 
regular  the  classifications,  that  there  was  no  spirit  of 
seniority  to  keep  her  out  of  things;  and  Una,  with  her 
fever  of  learning,  her  instinctive  common  sense  about 
doing  things  in  the  easiest  way,  stood  out  among  the  girl 
students.  The  young  men  did  not  buzz  about  her  as  they 
did  about  the  slim,  diabolic,  star-eyed  girl  from  Brooklyn, 
in  her  tempting  low-cut  blouses,  or  the  intense,  curly- 
headed,  boyish,  brown  Jew  girl,  or  the  ardent  dancers 
and  gigglers.  But  Una's  self-sufficient  eagerness  gave  a 
fervor  to  her  blue  eyes,  and  a  tilt  to  her  commonplace 
chin,  which  made  her  almost  pretty,  and  the  young  men 
liked  to  consult  her  about  things.  She  was  really  more 
prominent  here,  in  a  school  of  one  hundred  and  seventy, 
than  in  her  Panama  high  school  with  its  enrolment  of 
seventy. 

Panama,  Pennsylvania,  had  never  regarded  Una  as  a 
particularly  capable  young  woman.  Dozens  of  others 
were  more  masterful  at  trimming  the  Christmas  tree  for 

[24] 


THE    JOB 

Wesley  Methodist  Church,  preparing  for  the  annual 
picnic  of  the  Art  Needlework  Coterie,  arranging  a  sur 
prise  donation  party  for  the  Methodist  pastor,  even  spring 
house-cleaning.  But  she  had  been  well  spoken  of  as  a 
marketer,  a  cook,  a  neighbor  who  would  take  care  of 
your  baby  while  you  went  visiting — because  these  tasks 
had  seemed  worth  while  to  her.  She  was  more  practical 
than  either  Panama  or  herself  believed.  All  these  years 
she  had,  without  knowing  that  she  was  philosophizing, 
without  knowing  that  there  was  a  world- wide  inquiry  into 
woman's  place,  been  trying  to  find  work  that  needed  her. 
Her  father's  death  had  freed  her;  had  permitted  her  to 
toil  for  her  mother,  cherish  her,  be  regarded  as  useful. 
Instantly — still  without  learning  that  there  was  such  a 
principle  as  feminism — she  had  become  a  feminist,  de 
manding  the  world  and  all  the  fullness  thereof  as  her 
field  of  labor. 

And  now,  in  this  fumbling  school,  she  was  beginning 
to  feel  the  theory  of  efficiency,  the  ideal  of  Big  Business. 

For  "business,"  that  one  necessary  field  of  activity  to 

which  the  egotistic  arts  and  sciences  and  theologies  and 

military  puerilities  are  but  servants,  that  long-despised 

and  always  valiant  effort  to  unify  the  labor  of  the  world, 

\  is  at  last  beginning  to  be  something  more  than  dirty 

t  smithing.     No  longer  does  the  business  man  thank  the 

\better  classes  for  permitting  him  to  make  and  distribute 

Vbread  and  motor-cars  and  books.     No  longer  does  he 

pawl  to  the  church  to  buy  pardon  for  usury.     Business 

is  being  recognized — and  is  recognizing  itself — as  ruler  of 

the  world. 

With  this  consciousness  of  power  it  is  reforming  its  old, 
petty,  half-hearted  ways;  its  idea  of  manufacture  as  a 
filthy  sort  of  tinkering;  of  distribution  as  chance  ped 
dling  and  squalid  shopkeeping;  it  is  feverishly  seeking  effi- 

3  [251 


THE   JOB 

ciency.  ...  In  its  machinery.  .  .  .  But,  like  all  monarchies, 
it  must  fail  unless  it  becomes  noble  of  heart.  So  long  as 
capital  and  labor  are  divided,  so  long  as  the  making  of 
munitions  or  injurious  food  is  regarded  as  business,  so 
long  as  Big  Business  believes  that  it  exists  merely  to  en 
rich  a  few  of  the  lucky  or  the  well  born  or  the  nervously 
active,  it  will  not  be  efficient,  but  deficient.  But  the  vision 
of  an  efficiency  so  broad  that  it  can  be  kindly  and  sure, 
is  growing — is  discernible  at  once  in  the  scientific  business 
man  and  the  courageous  labor-unionist. 

That  vision  Una  Golden  feebly  comprehended.  Where 
she  first  beheld  it  cannot  be  said.  Certainly  not  in  the 
lectures  of  her  teachers,  humorless  and  unvisioned  grinds, 
who  droned  that  by  divine  edict  letters  must  end  with  a 
"yours  truly"  one  space  to  the  left  of  the  middle  of  the 
page;  who  sniffed  at  card-ledgers  as  new-fangled  nonsense, 
and,  at  their  most  inspired,  croaked  out  such  platitudes 
as:  "Look  out  for  the  pennies  and  the  pounds  will  look 
out  for  themselves,"  or  "The  man  who  fails  is  the  man 
who  watches  the  clock." 

Nor  was  the  vision  of  the  inspired  Big  Business  that 
shall  be,  to  be  found  in  the  books  over  which  Una  labored 
—the  fiat,  maroon-covered,  dusty,  commercial  geography, 
the  arid  book  of  phrases  and  rules-of- the- thumb  called 
"Fish's  Commercial  English,"  the  manual  of  touch- 
typewriting,  or  the  shorthand  primer  that,  with  its  gro 
tesque  symbols  and  numbered  exercises  and  yellow  pages 
dog-eared  by  many  owners,  looked  like  an  old-fashioned 
Arabic  grammar  headachily  perused  in  some  divinity- 
school  library. 

Her  vision  of  it  all  must  have  conie  partly  from  the 
eager  talk  of  a  few  of  the  students — the  girl  who  wasn't 
ever  going  to  give  up  her  job,  even  if  she  did  marry;  the 
man  who  saw  a  future  in  these  motion  pictures;  the 

[26] 


THE   JOB 

shaggy-haired  zealot  who  talked  about  profit-sharing 
(which  was  a  bold  radicalism  back  in  1905;  almost  as 
subversive  of  office  discipline  as  believing  in  unions). 
Partly  it  came  from  the  new  sorts  of  business  magazines 
for  the  man  who  didn't,  like  his  fathers,  insist,  "I  guess 
I  can  run  my  business  without  any  outside  interference," 
but  sought  everywhere  for  systems  and  charts  and  new 
markets  and  the  scientific  mind. 


§2 

While  her  power  of  faith  and  vision  was  satisfied  by  the 
largeness  of  the  city  and  by  her  chance  to  work,  there  was 
quickening  in  Una  a  shy,  indefinable,  inner  life  of  tender 
ness  and  desire  for  love.  She  did  not  admit  it,  but  she 
observed  the  young  men  about  her  with  an  interest  that 
was  as  diverting  as  her  ambition. 

At  first  they  awed  her  by  their  number  and  their 
strangeness.  But  when  she  seemed  to  be  quite  their 
equal  in  this  school  of  the  timorously  clerical,  she  began 
to  look  at  them  level-eyed.  ...  A  busy,  commonplace, 
soft-armed,  pleasant,  good  little  thing  she  was;  glancing  at 
them  through  eye-glasses  attached  to  a  gold  chain  over  her 
ear,  not  much  impressed  now,  slightly  ashamed  by  the  de 
light  she  took  in  winning  their  attention  by  brilliant  reci 
tations.  .  .  .  She  decided  that  most  of  them  were  earnest- 
minded  but  intelligent  serfs,  not  much  stronger  than  the 
girls  who  were  taking  stenography  for  want  of  anything 
better  to  do.  They  sprawled  and  looked  vacuous  as  they 
worked  in  rows  in  the  big  study-hall,  with  its  hard  blue 
walls  showing  the  marks  of  two  removed  partitions,  its  old 
iron  fireplace  stuffed  with  rubbers  and  overshoes  and 
crayon-boxes.  As  a  provincial,  Una  disliked  the  many 

Jews  among  them,  and  put  down  their  fervor  for  any 

[27] 


THE   JOB 

sort  of  learning  to  acquisitiveness.  The  rest  she  came  to 
despise  for  the  clumsy  slowness  with  which  they  learned 
even  the  simplest  lessons.  And  to  all  of  them  she — who 
was  going  to  be  rich  and  powerful,  directly  she  was  good 
for  one  hundred  words  a  minute  at  stenography! — felt 
disdainfully  superior,  because  they  were  likely  to  be  poor 
the  rest  of  their  lives. 

In  a  twilight  walk  on  Washington  Heights,  a  walk  of 
such  vigor  and  happy  absorption  with  new  problems  as 
she  had  never  known  in  Panama,  she  caught  herself  being 
contemptuous  about  their  frayed  poverty.  With  a  sharp 
emotional  sincerity,  she  rebuked  herself  for  such  sordid- 
ness,  mocked  herself  for  assuming  that  she  WSLS  already 
rich. 

Even  out  of  this  mass  of  clerklings  emerged  two  or  three 
who  were  interesting:  Sam  Weintraub,  a  young,  active, 
red-headed,  slim-waisted  Jew,  who  was  born  in  Brooklyn. 
He  smoked  large  cigars  with  an  air,  knew  how  to  wear 
his  clothes,  and  told  about  playing  tennis  at  the  Prospect 
Athletic  Club.  He  would  be  a  smart  secretary  or  con 
fidential  clerk  seme  day,  Una  was  certain;  he  would  own 
a  car  and  be  seen  in  evening  clothes  and  even  larger 
cigars  at  after-theater  suppers.  She  was  rather  in  awe  of 
his  sophistication.  He  was  the  only  man  who  made  her 
feel  like  a  Freshman. 

J.  J.  Todd,  a  reticent,  hesitating,  hard-working  man  of 
thirty,  from  Chatham  on  Cape  Cod.  It  was  he  who,  in 
noon-time  arguments,  grimly  advocated  profit-sharing, 
which  Sam  Weintraub  debonairly  dismissed  as  "social 
istic." 

And,  most  appealing  to  her,  enthusiastic  young  Sanford 
Hunt,  inarticulate,  but  longing  for  a  chance  to  attach 
himself  to  some  master.  Weintraub  and  Todd  had  desks 
on  either  side  of  her;  they  had  that  great  romantic  virtue, 

[28] 


THE   JOB 

propinquity.  But  Sanford  Hunt  she  had  noticed,  in  his 
corner  across  the  room,  because  he  glanced  about  with 
such  boyish  loneliness. 

Sanford  Hunt  helped  her  find  a  rubber  in  the  high- 
school-like  coat-room  on  a  rainy  day  when  the  girls  were 
giggling  and  the  tremendous  swells  of  the  institution  were 
whooping  and  slapping  one  another  on  the  back  and 
acting  as  much  as  possible  like  their  ideal  of  college  men — 
an  ideal  presumably  derived  from  motion  pictures  and 
college  playlets  in  vaudeville.  Una  saw  J.  J.  Todd  gawp 
ing  at  her,  but  not  offering  to  help,  while  a  foreshortened 
Sanford  groped  along  the  floor,  under  the  dusty  line  of 
coats,  for  her  missing  left  rubber.  Sanford  came  up  with 
the  rubber,  smiled  like  a  nice  boy,  and  walked  with  her  to 
the  Subway. 

He  didn't  need  much  encouragement  to  tell  his  am 
bitions.  He  was  twenty-one — three  years  younger  than 
herself.  He  was  a  semi-orphan,  born  in  Newark;  had 
worked  up  from  office-boy  to  clerk  in  the  office  of  a  huge 
Jersey  City  paint  company;  had  saved  money  to  take  a 
commercial  course;  was  going  back  to  the  paint  company, 
and  hoped  to  be  office-manager  there.  He  had  a  convic 
tion  that  "the  finest  man  in  the  world"  was  Mr.  Claude 
Lowry,  president  of  the  Lowry  Paint  Company;  the  next 
finest,  Mr.  Ernest  Lowry,  vice-president  and  general 
manager;  the  next,  Mr.  Julius  Schwirtz,  one  of  the  two 
city  salesmen — Mr.  Schwirtz  having  occupied  a  desk  next 
to  his  own  for  two  years — arid  that  "  the  best  paint  on  the 
market  to-day  is  Lowry's  Lasting  Paint — simply  no  get 
ting  around  it." 

In  the  five-minute  walk  over  to  the  Eighteenth  Street 
station  of  the  Subway,  Sanford  had  lastingly  impressed 
Una  by  his  devotion  to  the  job;  eager  and  faithful  as 
the  glory  that  a  young  subaltern  takes  in  his  regiment.  She 

[29] 


THE   JOB 

agreed  with  him  that  the  dour  J.  J.  Todd  was  "crazy" 
in  his  theories  about  profit-sharing  and  selling  stocks  to 
employees.  While  she  was  with  young  Sanford,  Una 
found  herself  concurring  that  "the  bosses  know  so  much 
better  about  all  those  things — gee  whiz!  they've  had  so 
much  more  experience — besides  you  can't  expect  them 
to  give  away  all  their  profits  to  please  these  walking  dele 
gates  or  a  Cape  Cod  farmer  like  Todd !  All  these  theories 
don't  do  a  fellow  any  good;  what  he  wants  is  to  stick  on 
a  job  and  make  good." 

Though,  in  keeping  with  the  general  school-boyishness 
of  the  institution,  the  study-room  supervisors  tried  to 
prevent  conversation,  there  was  always  a  current  of 
whispering  and  low  talk,  and  Sam  Weintraub  gave  Una 
daily  reports  of  the  tennis,  the  dances,  the  dinners  at 
the  Prospect  Athletic  Club.  Her  evident  awe  of  his  urban 
amusements  pleased  him.  He  told  his  former  idol,  the 
slim,  blond  giggler,  that  she  was  altogether  too  fresh  for 
a  Bronx  Kid,  and  he  basked  in  Una's  admiration.  Through 
him  she  had  a  revelation  of  the  New  York  in  which  people 
actually  were  born,  which  they  took  casually,  as  she  did 
Panama. 

She  tried  consciously  to  become  a  real  New-Yorker 
herself.  After  lunch — her  home-made  lunch  of  sandwiches 
and  an  apple — which  she  ate  in  the  buzzing,  gossiping 
study-hall  at  noon-hour,  she  explored  the  city.  Some 
times  Sanford  Hunt  begged  to  go  with  her.  Once  Todd 
stalked  along  and  embarrassed  her  by  being  indignant 
over  an  anti-socialist  orator  in  Madison  Square.  Once, 
on  Fifth  Avenue,  she  met  Sam  Weintraub,  and  he  non 
chalantly  pointed  out,  in  a  passing  motor,  a  man  whom  he 
declared  to  be  John  D.  Rockefeller. 

Even  at  lunch-hour  Una  could  not  come  to  much  under 
standing  with  the  girls  of  the  commercial  college.  They 

[30] 


THE   JOB 

seemed  alternately  third-rate  stenographers,  and  very 
haughty  urbanites  who  knew  all  about  "fellows"  and 
"shows"  and  "glad  rags."  Except  for  good-natured, 
square-rigged  Miss  Moynihan,  and  the  oldish,  anxious, 
industrious  Miss  Ingalls,  who,  like  Una,  came  from  a 
small  town,  and  the  adorably  pretty  little  Miss  Moore, 
whom  you  couldn't  help  loving,  Una  saw  the  girls  of  the 
school  only  in  a  mass. 

It  was  Sam  Weintraub,  J.  J.  Todd,  and  Sanford  Hunt 
whom  Una  watched  and  liked,  and  of  whom  she  thought 
when  the  school  authorities  pompously  invited  them  all 
to  a  dance  early  in  November. 

§3 

The  excitement,  the  giggles,  the  discussions  of  girdles 
and  slippers  and  hair-waving  and  men,  which  filled  the 
study-hall  at  noon  and  the  coat-room  at  closing  hour,  was 
like  midnight  silence  compared  with  the  tumult  in  Una's 
breast  when  she  tried  to  make  herself  believe  that  either 
her  blue  satin  evening  dress  or  her  white-and-pink  frock 
of  "novelty  cr£pe"  was  attractive  enough  for  the  oc 
casion.  The  crepe  was  the  older,  but  she  had  worn  the 
blue  satin  so  much  that  now  the  crepe  suddenly  seemed 
the  newer,  the  less  soiled.  After  discussions  with  her 
mother,  which  involved  much  holding  up  of  the  cr£pe 
and  the  tracing  of  imaginary  diagrams  with  a  forefinger, 
she  decided  to  put  a  new  velvet  girdle  and  new  sleeve 
ruffles  on  the  crepe,  and  then  she  said,  "  It  will  have  to  do." 

Very  different  is  the  dressing  of  the  girl  who  isn't  quite 
pretty,  nor  at  all  rich,  from  the  luxurious  joy  which  the 
beautiful  woman  takes  in  her  new  toilettes.  Instead  of 
the  faint,  shivery  wonder  as  to  whether  men  will  realize 
how  exquisitely  the  line  of  a  new  bodice  accentuates  the 

[31] 


THE   JOB 

molding  of  her  neck,  the  unpretty  girl  hopes  that  no  one 
will  observe  how  unevenly  her  dress  hangs,  how  pointed 
and  red  and  rough  are  her  elbows,  how  clumsily  waved  her 
hair.  "  I  don't  think  anybody  will  notice,"  she  sighs,  and 
is  contemptuously  conscious  of  her  own  stolid,  straight, 
healthy  waist,  while  her  mother  flutters  about  and  pre 
tends  to  believe  that  she  is  curved  like  a  houri,  like 
Helen  of  Troy,  like  Isolde  at  eighteen. 

Una  was  touched  by  her  mother's  sincere  eagerness  in 
trying  to  make  her  pretty.  Poor  little  mother.  It  had 
been  hard  on  her  to  sit  alone  all  day  in  a  city  flat,  with 
no  Panama  neighbors  to  drop  in  on  her,  no  meeting  of 
the  Panama  Study  Club,  and  with  Una  bringing  home 
her  books  to  work  aloof  all  evening. 

The  day  before  the  dance,  J.  J.  Todd  dourly  asked  her 
if  he  might  call  for  her  and  take  her  home.  Una  accepted 
hesitatingly.  As  she  did  so,  she  unconsciously  glanced 
at  the  decorative  Sam  Weintraub,  who  was  rocking  on 
his  toes  and  flu-ting  with  Miss  Moore,  the  kittenish  belle 
of  the  school. 

She  must  have  worried  for  fifteen  minutes  over  the 
question  of  whether  she  was  going  to  wear  a  hat  or  a 
scarf,  trying  to  remember  the  best  social  precedents  of 
Panama  as  laid  down  by  Mrs.  Dr.  Smith,  trying  to  recall 
New  York  women  as  she  had  once  or  twice  seen  them  in 
the  evening  on  Broadway.  Finally,  she  jerked  a  pale- 
blue  chiffon  scarf  over  her  mildly  pretty  hair,  pulled  on 
her  new  long,  white  kid  gloves,  noted  miserably  that  the 
gloves  did  not  quite  cover  her  pebbly  elbows,  and  snapped 
at  her  fussing  mother:  "Oh,  it  doesn't  matter.  I'm  a 
perfect  sight,  anyway,  so  what's  the  use  of  worrying!" 

Her  mother  looked  so  hurt  and  bewildered  that  Una 
pulled  her  down  into  a  chair,  and,  kneeling  on  the  floor 
with  her  arms  about  her,  crooned,  "Oh,  I'm  just  nervous, 

[32] 


THE   JOB 

mumsie  dear;  working  so  hard  and  all.  I'll  have  the 
best  time,  now  you've  made  me  so  pretty  for  the  dance." 
Clasped  thus,  an  intense  brooding  affection  holding  them 
and  seeming  to  fill  the  shabby  sitting-room,  they  waited 
for  the  coming  of  her  Tristan,  her  chevalier,  the  flat- 
footed  J.  J.  Todd. 

They  heard  Todd  shamble  along  the  hall.  They  wrig 
gled  with  concealed  laughter  and  held  each  other  tighter 
when  he  stopped  at  the  door  of  the  flat  and  blew  his  ner 
vous  nose  in  a  tremendous  blast.  .  .  .  More  vulgar  possibly 
than  the  trumpetry  which  heralded  the  arrival  of  Lance 
lot  at  a  chateau,  but  on  the  whole  quite  as  effective. 

She  set  out  with  him,  observing  his  pitiful,  home-cleaned, 
black  sack-suit,  and  home-shined,  expansive,  black  boots 
and  ready-made  tie,  while  he  talked  easily,  and  was  merely 
rude  about  dances  and  clothes  and  the  weather. 

In  the  study-hall,  which  had  been  cleared  of  all  seats 
except  for  a  fringe  along  the  walls,  and  was  unevenly  hung 
with  school  flags  and  patriotic  bunting,  Una  found  the 
empty-headed  time-servers,  the  Little  Folk,  to  whom  she 
was  so  superior  in  the  class-room.  Brooklyn  Jews  used 
to  side-street  dance-halls,  Bronx  girls  who  went  to  the 
bartenders*  ball,  and  the  dinner  and  grand  ball  of  the 
Clamchowder  Twenty,  they  laughed  and  talked  and 
danced — all  three  at  once — with  an  ease  which  dismayed 
her. 

To  Una  Golden,  of  Panama,  the  waltz  and  the  two-step 
were  solemn  affairs.  She  could  make  her  feet  go  in  a 
one-two-three  triangle  with  approximate  accuracy,  if 
she  didn't  take  any  liberties  with  them.  She  was  relieved 
to  find  that  Todd  danced  with  a  heavy  accuracy  which 
kept  her  from  stumbling.  .  .  .  But  their  performance  was 
solemn  and  joyless,  while  by  her  skipped  Sam  Weintraub, 
in  evening  clothes  with  black  velvet  collar  and  cuffs, 

[33] 


THE    JOB 

swinging  and  making  fantastic  dips  with  the  lovely  Miss 
Moore,  who  cuddled  into  his  arms  and  swayed  to  his  swing. 

"Let's  cut  out  the  next,"  said  Todd,  and  she  consented, 
though  Sanford  Hunt  came  boyishly,  blushingly  up  to 
ask  her  for  a  dance.  .  .  .  She  was  intensely  aware  that  she 
was  a  wall-flower,  in  a  row  with  the  anxious  Miss  IngaJls 
and  the  elderly  frump,  Miss  Fisle.  Sam  Weintraub  seemed 
to  avoid  her,  and,  though  she  tried  to  persuade  herself 
that  his  greasy,  curly,  red  hair  and  his  pride  of  evening 
clothes  and  sharp  face  were  blatantly  Jewish,  she  knew 
that  she  admired  his  atmosphere  of  gorgeousness  and 
was  in  despair  at  being  shut  out  of  it.  She  even  feared 
that  Sanford  Hunt  hadn't  really  wanted  to  dance  with 
her,  and  she  wilfully  ignored  his  frequent  glances  of 
friendliness  and  his  efforts  to  introduce  her  and  his  "  lady 
friend."  She  was  silent  and  hard,  while  poor  Todd,  try 
ing  not  to  be  a  radical  and  lecture  on  single-tax  or  munic 
ipal  ownership,  attempted  to  be  airy  about  the  theater, 
which  meant  the  one  show  he  had  seen  since  he  had  come 
to  New  York. 

From  vague  dissatisfaction  she  drifted  into  an  active 
resentment  at  being  shut  out  of  the  world  of  pretty 
things,  of  clinging  gowns  and  graceful  movement  and 
fragrant  rooms.  While  Todd  was  taking  her  home  she 
was  saying  to  herself  over  and  over,  "Nope;  it's  just  as 
bad  as  parties  at  Panama.  Never  really  enjoyed  'ena. 
I'm  out  of  it.  I'll  stick  to  my  work.  Oh,  drat  it!" 


Blindly,  in  a  daily  growing  faith  in  her  commercial 
future,  she  shut  out  the  awkward  gaieties  of  the  school, 
ignored  Todd  and  Sanford  Hunt  and  Sam  Weintraub, 

made  no  effort  to  cultivate  the  adorable  Miss  Moore's 

[34] 


THE    JOB 

rather  flattering  friendliness  for  her.  She  was  like  a  girl 
grind  in  a  coeducational  college  who  determines  to  head 
the  class  and  to  that  devotes  all  of  a  sexless  energy. 

Only  Una  was  not  sexless.     Though  she  hadn't  the 
dancing-girl's    oblivious  delight  in   pleasure,  though  her 
energetic  common  sense  and  willingness  to    serve    had 
turned  into  a  durable  plodding,  Una  was  alive,  normal, 
desirous  of  love,  as  the  flower-faced  girl  grind  of  the  col-  k 
lege  so  often  is  not,  to  the  vast  confusion  of  numerous  I 
ardent  young  gentlemen. 

She  could  not  long  forbid  herself  an  interest  in  Sanford 
Hunt  and  Sam  Weintraub;  she  even  idealized  Todd  as  a 
humble  hero,  a  self-made  and  honest  man,  which  he  was, 
though  Una  considered  herself  highly  charitable  to  him. 

Sweet  to  her — even  when  he  told  her  that  he  was  en 
gaged,  even  when  it  was  evident  that  he  regarded  her  as 
an  older  sister  or  as  a  very  young  and  understanding 
aunt — was  Sanford  Hunt's  liking.  "Why  do  you  like  me 
— if  you  do?"  she  demanded  one  lunch-hour,  when  he 
had  brought  her  a  bar  of  milk-chocolate. 

"Oh,  I  dun'no';  you're  so  darn  honest,  and  you  got 
so  much  more  sense  than  this  bunch  of  Bronx  totties. 
Gee!  they'll  make  bum  stenogs.  I  know.  I've  worked 
in  an  office.  They'll  keep  their  gum  and  a  looking-glass  in 
the  upper  right-hand  drawer  of  their  typewriter  desks, 
and  the  old  man  will  call  them  down  eleventy  times  a 
day,  and  they'll  marry  the  shipping-clerk  first  time  he 
sneaks  out  from  behind  a  box.  But  you  got  sense,  and 
somehow — gee!  I  never  know  how  to  express  things — 
glad  I'm  taking  this  English  composition  stuff — oh,  you 
just  seem  to  understand  a  guy.  I  never  liked  that  Yid 
Weintraub  till  you  made  me  see  how  darn  clever  and  nice 
he  really  is,  even  if  he  does  wear  spats." 

Sanford  told  her  often  that  he  wished  she  was  going 

[35] 


THE   JOB 

to  come  over  to  the  Lowry  Paint  Company  to  work,  when 
she  finished.  He  had  entered  the  college  before  her; 
he  would  be  through  somewhat  earlier;  he  was  going 
back  to  the  paint  company  and  would  try  to  find  an 
opening  for  her  there.  He  wanted  her  to  meet  Mr.  Julius 
Edward  Schwirtz,  the  Manhattan  salesman  of  the  com 
pany. 

When  Mr.  Schwirtz  was  in  that  part  of  town,  interview 
ing  the  department-store  buyers,  he  called  up  Sanford 
Hunt,  and  Sanford  insisted  that  she  come  out  to  lunch 
with  Schwirtz  and  himself  and  his  girl.  She  went  shyly. 

Sanford's  sweetheart  proved  to  be  as  clean  and  sweet 
as  himself,  but  mute,  smiling  instead  of  speaking,  inclined 
to  admire  every  one,  without  much  discrimination.  San 
ford  was  very  proud,  very  eager  as  host,  and  his  boyish 
admiration  of  all  his  guests  gave  a  certain  charm  to  the 
corner  of  the  crude  German  sausage-and-schnitzel  res 
taurant  where  they  lunched.  Una  worked  at  making  the 
party  as  successful  as  possible,  and  was  cordial  to  Mr. 
Julius  Edward  Schwirtz,  the  paint  salesman. 

Mr.  Schwirtz  was  forty  or  forty-one,  a  red-faced, 
clipped  -  mustached,  derby-hatted  average  citizen.  He 
was  ungrammatical  and  jocose ;  he  panted  a  good  deal  and 
gurgled  his  soup;  his  nails  were  ragged-edged,  his  stupid 
brown  tie  uneven,  and  there  were  signs  of  a  growing 
grossness  and  fatty  unwieldiness  about  his  neck,  his 
shoulders,  his  waist.  But  he  was  affable.  He  quietly 
helped  Sanford  in  ordering  lunch,  to  the  great  economy 
of  embarrassment.  He  was  smilingly  ready  to  explain  to 
Una  how  a  paint  company  office  was  run;  what  chances 
there  were  for  a  girl.  He  seemed  to  know  his  business, 
he  didn't  gossip,  and  his  heavy,  coarse-lipped  smile  was 
almost  sweet  when  he  said  to  Una,  "Makes  a  hard-cased 
old  widower  like  me  pretty  lonely  to  see  this  nice  kid  and 

[36] 


THE    JOB 

girly  here.  Eh?  Wish  I  had  some  children  like  them 
myself." 

He  wasn't  vastly  different  from  Henry  Carson,  this  Mr. 
Schwirtz,  but  he  had  a  mechanical  city  smartness  in  his 
manner  and  a  jocular  energy  which  the  stringy-necked 
Henry  quite  lacked. 

Because  she  liked  to  be  with  Sanford  Hunt,  hoped  to 
get  from  Mr.  Julius  Edward  Schwirtz  still  more  of  the 
feeling  of  how  actual  business  men  do  business,  she  hoped 
for  another  lunch. 

But  a  crisis  unexpected  and  alarming  came  to  interrupt 
her  happy  progress  to  a  knowledge  of  herself  and  men. 

§5 

The  Goldens  had  owned  no  property  in  Panama,  Penn 
sylvania;  they  had  rented  their  house.  Captain  Lew 
Golden,  who  was  so  urgent  in  advising  others  to  purchase 
real  estate — with  a  small,  justifiable  commission  to  him 
self — had  never  quite  found  time  to  decide  on  his  own 
real-estate  investments.  When  they  had  come  to  New 
York,  Una  and  her  mother  had  given  up  the  house  and 
sold  the  heavier  furniture,  the  big  beds,  the  stove.  The 
rest  of  the  furniture  they  had  brought  to  the  city  and  in 
stalled  in  a  little  flat  way  up  on  148th  Street. 

Her  mother  was,  Una  declared,  so  absolutely  the  lady 
that  it  was  a  crying  shame  to  think  of  her  immured  here 
in  their  elevatorless  tenement;  this  new,  clean,  barren 
building  of  yellow  brick,  its  face  broken  out  with  fire- 
escapes.  It  had  narrow  halls,  stairs  of  slate  treads  and 
iron  rails,  and  cheap  wooden  doorways  which  had  begun 
to  warp  the  minute  the  structure  was  finished — and  sold. 
The  bright-green  burlap  wall-covering  in  the  hallways 

had  faded  in  less  than  a  year  to  the  color  of  dry  grass. 

[37] 


THE    JOB 

The  janitor  grew  tired  every  now  and  then.  He  had  been 
markedly  diligent  at  first,  but  he  was  already  giving  up 
the  task  of  keeping  the  building  clean.  It  was  one  of, 
and  typical  of,  a  mile  of  yellow  brick  tenements;  it  was 
named  after  an  African  orchid  of  great  loveliness,  and  it 
was  filled  with  clerks,  motormen,  probationer  policemen, 
and  enormously  prolific  women  in  dressing-sacques. 

The  Goldens  had  three  rooms  and  bath.  A  small 
linoleous  gas-stove  kitchen.  A  bedroom  with  standing 
wardrobe,  iron  bed,  and  just  one  graceful  piece  of  furni 
ture — Una's  dressing-table;  a  room  pervasively  feminine 
in  its  scent  and  in  the  little  piles  of  lingerie  which  Mrs. 
Golden  affected  more,  not  less,  as  she  grew  older.  The 
living-room,  with  stiff,  brown,  woolen  brocade  chairs, 
transplanted  from  their  Panama  home,  a  red  plush  sofa, 
two  large  oak-framed  Biblical  pictures — "The  Wedding- 
feast  at  Cana,"  and  "Solomon  in  His  Temple."  This 
living-room  had  never  been  changed  since  the  day  of  their 
moving  in.  Una  repeatedly  coveted  the  German  color- 
prints  she  saw  in  shop  windows,  but  she  had  to  economize. 

She  planned  that  when  she  should  succeed  they  would 
have  such  an  apartment  of  white  enamel  and  glass  doors 
and  mahogany  as  she  saw  described  in  the  women's 
magazines.  She  realized  mentally  that  her  mother  must 
be  lonely  in  the  long  hours  of  waiting  for  her  return,  but 
she  who  was  busy  all  day  could  never  feel  emotionally 
how  great  was  that  loneliness,  and  she  expected  her  mother 
to  be  satisfied  with  the  future. 

Quite  suddenly,  a  couple  of  weeks  after  the  dance, 
when  they  were  talking  about  the  looming  topic — what 
kind  of  work  Una  would  be  able  to  get  when  she  should 
have  completed  school  —  her  mother  fell  violently 
a- weeping;  sobbed,  "Oh,  Una  baby,  I  want  to  go  home. 
I'm  so  lonely  here — just  nobody  but  you  and  the  Ses- 

[38] 


THE   JOB 

sionses.  Can't  we  go  back  to  Panama?  You  don't  seem 
to  really  know  what  you  are  going  to  do." 

"Why,  mother—" 

Una  loved  her  mother,  yet  she  felt  a  grim  disgust, 
rather  than  pity.  .  .  .  Just  when  she  had  been  working  so 
hard!  And  for  her  mother  as  much  as  for  herself.  .  .  .  She 
stalked  over  to  the  table,  severely  rearranged  the  maga 
zines,  slammed  down  a  newspaper,  and  turned,  angrily. 
"Why,  can't  you  see?  I  can't  give  up  my  work  now." 

"Couldn't  you  get  something  to  do  in  Panama,  dearie?" 

"You  know  perfectly  well  that  I  tried." 

''But  maybe  now,  with  your  college  course  and  all — 
even  if  it  took  a  little  longer  to  get  something  there,  we'd 
be  right  among  the  folks  we  know — " 

"Mother,  can't  you  understand  that  we  have  only  a 
little  over  three  hundred  dollars  now?  If  we  moved  again 
and  everything,  we  wouldn't  have  two  hundred  dollars 
to  live  on.  Haven't  you  any  sense  of  finances?" 

"You  must  not  talk  to  me  that  way,  my  daughter!" 

A  slim,  fine  figure  of  hurt  dignity,  Mrs.  Golden  left  the 
room,  lay  down  in  the  bedroom,  her  face  away  from  the 
door  where  Una  stood  in  perplexity.  Una  ran  to  her, 
kissed  her  shoulder,  begged  for  forgiveness.  Her  mother 
patted  her  cheek,  and  sobbed,  "Oh,  it  doesn't  matter," 
in  a  tone  so  forlorn  and  lonely  that  it  did  matter,  terribly. 
The  sadness  of  it  tortured  Una  while  she  was  realizing 
that  her  mother  had  lost  all  practical  comprehension  of 
the  details  of  life,  was  become  a  child,  trusting  every 
thing  to  her  daughter,  yet  retaining  a  power  of  suffering 
such  as  no  child  can  know. 

It  had  been  easy  to  bring  her  mother  here,  to  start  a 
career.  Both  of  them  had  preconceived  a  life  of  gaiety 
and  beauty,  of  charming  people  and  pictures  and  concerts. 
But  all  those  graces  were  behind  a  dusty  wall  of  short- 

[39] 


THE   JOB 

hand  and  typewriting.  Una's  struggle  in  coming  to  New 
York  had  just  begun. 

Gently  arbitrary,  dearer  than  ever  to  Una  in  her  help 
less  longing  for  kindly  neighbors  and  the  familiar  places, 
Mrs.  Golden  went  on  hoping  that  she  could  persuade  Una 
to  go  back  to  Panama.  She  never  seemed  to  realize  that 
their  capital  wasn't  increasing  as  time  passed.  Sometimes 
impatient  at  her  obtuseness,  sometimes  passionate  with 
comprehending  tenderness,  Una  devoted  herself  to  her, 
and  Mr.  Schwirtz  and  Sanford  Hunt  and  Sam  Weintraub 
and  Todd  faded.  She  treasured  her  mother's  happiness 
at  their  Christmas  dinner  with  the  Sessionses.  She  en 
couraged  the  Sessionses  to  come  up  to  the  flat  as  often 
as  they  could,  and  she  lulled  her  mother  to  a  tolerable 
calm  boredom.  Before  it  was  convenient  to  think  of  men 
again,  her  school- work  was  over. 

The  commercial  college  had  a  graduation  once  a  month. 
On  January  15,  1906,  Una  finished  her  course,  regretfully 
said  good-by  to  Sam  Weintraub,  and  to  Sanford  Hunt, 
who  had  graduated  in  mid-December,  but  had  come  back 
for  "class  commencement";  and  at  the  last  moment 
she  hesitated  so  long  over  J.  J.  Todd's  hints  about  calling 
some  day,  that  he  was  discouraged  and  turned  away. 
Una  glanced  about  the  study-hall — the  first  place  where 
she  had  ever  been  taken  seriously  as  a  worker — and 
marched  off  to  her  first  battle  in  the  war  of  business. 


CHAPTER  IV 

SANFORD   HUNT   telephoned  to  Una  that  he  and 
Mr.    Julius    Edward    Schwirtz  —  whom    he    called 
"Eddie"— had  done  their  best  to  find  an  "opening"  for 
her  in  the  office  of  the  Lowry  Paint  Company,  but  that 
there  was  no  chance. 

The  commercial  college  gave  her  the  names  of  several 
possible  employers,  but  they  all  wanted  approximate  per 
fection  at  approximately  nothing  a  week.  After  ten  days 
of  panic-stricken  waiting  at  the  employment  office  of  a 
typewriter  company,  and  answering  want  advertisements, 
the  typewriter  people  sent  her  to  the  office  of  the  Motor 
and  Gas  Gazette,  a  weekly  magazine  for  the  trade.  In  this 
atmosphere  of  the  literature  of  lubricating  oil  and  drop 
forgings  and  body  enamels,  as  an  eight-dollar-a-week 
copyist,  Una  first  beheld  the  drama  and  romance  of  the 
office  world. 

§2 

There  is  plenty  of  romance  in  business.  Fine,  large, 
meaningless,  general  terms  like  romance  and  business  can 
always  be  related.  They  take  the  place  of  thinking,  and 
are  highly  useful  to  optimists  and  lecturers. 

But  in  the  world  of  business  there  is  a  bewildered  new 
Muse  of  Romance,  who  is  clad  not  in  silvery  tissue  of 
dreams,  but  in  a  neat  blue  suit  that  won't  grow  too  shiny 
under  the  sleeves. 

Adventure  now,  with  Una,  in  the  world  of  business; 

4  [41] 


f 


THE   JOB 

of  offices  and  jobs  and  tired,  ordinary  people  who  know 
such  reality  of  romance  as  your  masquerading  earl,  your 
shoddy  Broadway  actress,  or  your  rosily  amorous  dairy 
maid  could  never  imagine.  The  youths  of  poetry  and  of 
the  modern  motor-car  fiction  make  a  long  diversion  of 
love;  while  the  sleezy-coated  office-man  who  surprises 
a  look  of  humanness  in  the  weary  eyes  of  the  office- 
woman,  knows  that  he  must  compress  all  the  wonder 
of  madness  into  five  minutes,  because  the  Chief  is 
prowling  about,  glancing  meaningly  at  the  little  signs 
that  declare,  "Your  time  is  your  employer's  money; 
don't  steal  it." 

A  world  is  this  whose  noblest  vista  is  composed  of  desks 
and  typewriters,  filing-cases  and  insurance  calendars,  tele 
phones,  and  the  bald  heads  of  men  who  believe  dreams  to 
be  idiotic.  Here,  no  galleon  breasts  the  sky-line;  no  ex 
plorer  in  evening  clothes  makes  love  to  an  heiress.  Here 
ride  no  rollicking  cowboys,  nor  heroes  of  the  great  Euro 
pean  war.  It  is  a  world  whose  crises  you  cannot  com 
prehend  unless  you  have  learned  that  the  difference  be 
tween  a  2-A  pencil  and  a  2-B  pencil  is  at  least  equal  to 
the  contrast  between  London  and  Tibet;  unless  you  under 
stand  why  a  normally  self-controlled  young  woman  may 
have  a  week  of  tragic  discomfort  because  she  is  using  a 
billing-machine  instead  of  her  ordinary  correspondence 
typewriter.  The  shifting  of  the  water-cooler  from  the 
front  office  to  the  packing-room  may  be  an  epochal  event 
to  a  copyist  who  apparently  has  no  human  existence  be 
yond  bending  over  a  clacking  typewriter,  who  seems  to 
have  no  home,  no  family,  no  loves;  in  whom  all  pride 
and  wonder  of  life  and  all  transforming  drama  seem  to  be 
satisfied  by  the  possession  of  a  new  V-necked  blouse. 
The  moving  of  the  water-coolor  may  mean  that  she  must 
now  pass  the  sentinel  office-manager;  that  therefore  she 

[42] 


THE   JOB 

no  longer  dares  break  the  incredible  monotony  by  ex 
peditions  to  get  glasses  of  water.  As  a  consequence  she 
gives  up  the  office  and  marries  unhappily. 

A  vast,  competent,  largely  useless  cosmos  of  offices.  It 
spends  much  energy  in  causing  advertisements  of  beer  and 
chewing-gum  and  union  suits  and  pot-cleanseis  to  spread 
over  the  whole  landscape.  It  marches  out  ponderous 
battalions  to  sell  a  brass  pin.  It  evokes  shoes  that  are 
uncomfortable,  hideous,  and  perishable,  and  touchingly 
hopes  that  all  women  will  aid  the  cause  of  good  business 
by  wearing  them.  It  turns  noble  valleys  into  fields  for 
pickles.  It  compels  men  whom  it  has  never  seen  to  toil 
in  distant  factories  and  produce  useless  wares,  which  are 
never  actually  brought  into  the  office,  but  which  it  never 
theless  sells  to  the  heathen  in  the  Solomon  Islands  in 
exchange  for  commodities  whose  very  names  it  does  not 
know;  and  in  order  to  perform  this  miracle  of  transmuta 
tion  it  keeps  stenographers  so  busy  that  they  change  from 
dewy  girls  into  tight-lipped  spinsters  before  they  dis 
cover  life. 

The  reason  for  it  all,  nobody  who  is  actually  engaged 
in  it  can  tell  you,  except  the  bosses,  who  believe  that  these 
sacred  rites  of  composing  dull  letters  and  solemnly  filing 
them  away  are  observed  in  order  that  they  may  buy 
the  large  automobiles  in  which  they  do  not  have  time 
to  take  the  air.  Efficiency  of  production  they  have 
learned;  efficiency  of  life  they  still  consider  an  effeminate 
hobby. 

An  unreasonable  world,  sacrificing  bird-song  and  tran 
quil  dusk  and  high  golden  noons  to  selling  junk — yet  it 
rules  us.  And  life  lives  there.  The  office  is  filled  with 
thrills  of  love  and  distrust  and  ambition.  Each  alley  be 
tween  desks  quivers  with  secret  romance  as  ceaselessly 
as  a  battle-trench,  or  a  lane  in  Normandy. 

[43] 


THE    JOB 


Una's  first  view  of  the  Motor  and  Gas  Gazette  was  of  an 
overwhelming  mass  of  desks  and  files  and  books,  and  a 
confusing,  spying  crowd  of  strange  people,  among  whom 
the  only  safe,  familiar  persons  were  Miss  Moynihan,  the 
good-natured  solid  block  of  girl  whom  she  had  known  at 
the  commercial  college,  and  Mr.  S.  Herbert  Ross,  the 
advertising-manager,  who  had  hired  her.  Mr.  Ross  was 
a  poet  of  business;  a  squat,  nervous  little  man,  whose 
hair  was  cut  in  a  Dutch  bang,  straight  across  his  forehead, 
and  who  always  wore  a  black  bow  tie  and  semi-clerical 
black  clothes.  He  had  eyed  Una  amusedly,  asked  her 
what  was  her  reaction  to  green  and  crimson  posters,  and 
given  her  a  little  book  by  himself,  "R  U  A  Time-clock, 
Mr.  Man?"  which,  in  large  and  tremendously  black  type, 
related  two  stories  about  the  youth  of  Carnegie,  and 
strongly  advocated  industry,  correspondence  schools,  and 
expensive  advertising.  When  Una  entered  the  office,  as 
a  copyist,  Mr.  S.  Herbert  Ross  turned  her  over  to  the 
office-manager,  and  thereafter  ignored  her;  but  whenever 
she  saw  him  in  pompous  conference  with  editors  and  ad 
vertisers  she  felt  proudly  that  she  knew  him. 

The  commercial  college  had  trained  her  to  work  with 
a  number  of  people,  as  she  was  now  to  do  in  the  office; 
but  in  the  seriousness  and  savage  continuity  of  its  toil, 
the  office  was  very  different.  There  was  no  let-up;  she 
couldn't  shirk  for  a  day  or  two,  as  she  had  done  at  the 
commercial  college.  It  was  not  so  much  that  she  was  afraid 
of  losing  her  job  as  that  she  came  to  see  herself  as  part  of 
a  chain.  The  others,  beyond,  were  waiting  for  her;  she 
mustn't  hold  them  up.  That  was  her  first  impression  of 
the  office  system,  that  and  the  insignificance  of  herself  in 
the  presence  of  the  office-hierarchy — manager  above  man- 

[44] 


THE    JOB 

ager  and  the  Mysterious  Owner  beyond  all.  She  was 
alone;  once  she  transgressed  they  would  crush  her.  They 
had  no  personal  interest  in  her,  none  of  them,  except  her 
classmate,  Miss  Moynihan,  who  smiled  at  her  and  went 
out  to  lunch  with  her. 

They  two  did  not  dare  to  sit  over  parcels  of  lunch  with 
the  curious  other  girls.  Before  fifteen-cent  lunches  of 
baked  apples,  greasy  Napoleons,  and  cups  of  coffee,  at  a 
cheap  restaurant,  Miss  Moynihan  and  she  talked  about 
the  office-manager,  the  editors,  the  strain  of  copying  all 
day,  and  they  united  in  lyric  hatred  of  the  lieutenant 
of  the  girls,  a  satiric  young  woman  who  was  a  wonderful 
hater.  Una  had  regarded  Miss  Moynihan  as  thick  and 
stupid,  but  not  when  she  had  thought  of  falling  in  love 
with  Charlie  Martindale  at  a  dance  at  Panama,  not  in 
her  most  fervid  hours  of  comforting  her  mother,  had  she 
been  so  closely  in  sympathy  with  any  human  being  as  she 
was  with  Miss  Moynihan  when  they  went  over  and  over 
the  problems  of  office  politics,  office  favorites,  office  rules, 
office  customs. 

The  customs  were  simple:  Certain  hours  for  arrival, 
for  lunch,  for  leaving;  women's  retiring-room  embar- 
rassedly  discovered  to  be  on  the  right  behind  the  big 
safe;  water-cooler  in  the  center  of  the  stenographers* 
room.  But  the  office  prejudices,  the  taboos,  could  not  be 
guessed.  They  offered  you  every  possible  chance  of 
*'  queering  yourself."  Miss  Moynihan,  on  her  very  first 
day,  discovered,  perspiringly,  that  you  must  never  men 
tion  the  Gazette's  rival,  the  Internal  Combustion  News. 
The  Gazette's  attitude  was  that  the  News  did  not  exist — 
except  when  the  Gazette  wanted  the  plate  of  an  advertise 
ment  which  the  News  was  to  forward.  You  mustn't  chew 
gum  in  the  office;  you  were  to  ask  favors  of  the  lieutenant, 
not  of  the  office-manager;  and  you  mustn't  be  friendly 

[45] 


THE   JOB 

with  Mr.  Bush  of  the  circulation  department,  nor  with 
Miss  Caldwell,  the  filing-clerk.  Why  they  were  taboo 
Una  never  knew;  it  Was  an  office  convention;  they  seemed 
pleasant  and  proper  people  enough. 

She  was  initiated  into  the  science  of  office  supplies. 
In  the  commercial  college  the  authorities  had  provided 
stenographers'  note-books  and  pencils,  and  the  repre 
sentatives  of  typewriter  companies  had  given  lectures  on 
cleaning  and  oiling  typewriters,  putting  in  new  ribbons, 
adjusting  tension-wheels.  But  Una  had  not  realized  how 
many  tools  she  had  to  know 

Desks,  filing-cabinets,  mimeographs,  adding-machines, 
card  indexes,  desk  calendars,  telephone-extensions,  ad 
justable  desk-lights.  Wire  correspondence-baskets,  eras 
ers,  carbon  paper,  type-brushes,  dust-rags,  waste-baskets. 
Pencils,  hard  and  soft,  black  and  blue  and  red.  Pens, 
pen-points,  backing-sheets,  note-books,  paper-clips.  Muci 
lage,  paste,  stationery;  the  half-dozen  sorts  of  envelopes 
and  letter-heads. 

Tools  were  these,  as  important  in  her  trade  as  the  mast 
head  and  black  flag,  the  cutlasses  and  crimson  sashes,  the 
gold  doubloons  and  damsels  fair  of  pirate  fiction;  or  the 
cheese  and  cream,  old  horses  and  slumberous  lanes  of 
rustic  comedy.  As  important,  and  perhaps  to  be  deemed 
as  romantic  some  day;  witness  the  rhapsodic  advertise 
ments  of  filing-cabinets  that  are  built  like  battle-ships; 
of  carbon-paper  that  is  magic-inked  and  satin-smooth. 

Not  as  priest  or  soldier  or  judge  does  youth  seek  honor 
to-day,  but  as  a  man  of  offices.  The  business  subaltern, 
charming  and  gallant  as  the  jungle-gallopers  of  Kipling, 
drills  files,  not  of  troops,  but  of  correspondence.  The 
artist  plays  the  keys,  not  of  pianos,  but  of  typewriters. 
Desks, not  decks;  courts  of  office-buildings, not  of  palaces — • 

these  are  the  stuff  of  our  latter-day  drama.    Not  through 

[46] 


THE    JOB 

wolf-haunted  forests  nor  purple  canons,  but  through  tiled 
hallways  and  elevators  move  our  heroes  of  to-day. 

And  our  heroine  is  important  not  because  she  is  an 
Amazon  or  a  Ramona,  but  because  she  is  representative 
of  some  millions  of  women  in  business,  and  because,  in 
a  vague  but  undiscouraged  way,  she  keeps  on  inquiring 
what  women  in  business  can  do  to  make  human  their 
existence  of  loveless  routine. 


Una  spent  much  of  her  time  in  copying  over  and  over — 
a  hundred  times,  two  hundred  times — form-letters  solicit 
ing  advertising,  letters  too  personal  in  appearance  to  be 
multigraphed.  She  had  lists  of  manufacturers  of  motor 
car  accessories,  of  makers  of  lubricating  oils,  of  distribu 
tors  of  ball-bearings  and  speedometers  and  springs  and 
carburetors  and  compositions  for  water-proofing  auto 
mobile  tops. 

Sometimes  she  was  requisitioned  by  the  editorial  de 
partment  to  copy  in  form  legible  for  the  printer  the  rough 
items  sent  in  by  outsiders  for  publication  in  the  Gazette. 
Una,  like  most  people  of  Panama,  had  believed  that  there 
was  something  artistic  about  the  office  of  any  publication. 
One  would  see  editors — wonderful  men  like  grand  dukes, 
prone  to  lunch  with  the  President.  But  there  was  noth 
ing  artistic  about  the  editorial  office  of  the  Gazette — sev 
eral  young  men  in  shirt-sleeves  and  green  celluloid  eye- 
shades,  very  slangy  and  pipe-smelly,  and  an  older  man 
with  unpressed  trousers  and  ragged  mustache.  Nor  was 
there  anything  literary  in  the  things  that  Una  copied  for 
the  editorial  department;  just  painfully  handwritten 
accounts  of  the  meeting  of  the  Southeastern  Iowa  Auto- 
dealers'  Association;  or  boasts  about  the  increased  sales 

[47] 


THE   JOB 

of  Roadeater  Tires,  a  page  originally  smartly  typed,  but 
cut  and  marked  up  by  the  editors. 

Lists  and  letters  and  items,  over  and  over;  sitting  at 
her  typewriter  till  her  shoulder-blades  ached  and  she  had 
to  shut  her  eyes  to  the  blur  of  the  keys.  The  racket  of 
office  noises  all  day.  The  three-o'clock  hour  when  she  felt 
that  she  simply  could  not  endure  the  mill  till  five  o'clock. 
No  interest  in  anything  she  wrote.  Then  the  blessed 
hour  of  release,  the  stretching  of  cramped  legs,  and  the 
blind  creeping  to  the  Subway,  the  crush  in  the  train,  and 
home  to  comfort  the  mother  who  had  been  lonely  all  day. 

Such  was  Una's  routine  in  these  early  months  of  1906. 
After  the  novelty  of  the  first  week  it  was  all  rigidly  the 
same,  except  that  distinct  personalities  began  to  emerge 
from  the  mass. 

Especially  the  personality  of  Walter  Babson. 

§5 

Out  of  the  mist  of  strange  faces,  blurred  hordes  of  people 
who  swaggered  up  the  office  aisle  so  knowingly,  and  grinned 
at  her  when  she  asked  questions,  individualities  began  to 
take  form : 

Miss  Moynihan;  the  Jewish  stenographer  with  the  laugh 
ing  lips  and  hot  eyes;  the  four  superior  older  girls  in  a 
corner,  the  still  more  superior  girl  lieutenant,  and  the 
office-manager,  who  was  the  least  superior  of  all;  the 
telephone-girl;  the  office-boys;  Mr.  S.  Herbert  Ross 
and  his  assistant;  the  managing  editor;  a  motor 
magnate  whose  connection  was  mysterious;  the  owner, 
a  courteous,  silent,  glancing  man  who  was  reported  to  be 
hard  and  "stingy." 

Other  people  still  remained  unidentifiable  to  her,  but 
the  office  appeared  smaller  and  less  formidable  in  a  month, 


THE   JOB 

Out  of  each  nine  square  feet  of  floor  space  in  the  office  a 
novel  might  have  been  made:  the  tale  of  the  managing 
editor's  neurotic  wife;  the  tragedy  of  Chubby  Hubbard, 
the  stupid  young  editor  who  had  been  a  college  football 
star,  then  an  automobile  racer,  then  a  failure.  And  in 
deed  there  was  a  whole  novel,  a  story  told  and  retold,  in 
the  girls'  gossip  about  each  of  the  men  before  whom  they 
were  so  demure.  But  it  was  Walter  Babson  whom  the 
girls  most  discussed  and  in  whom  Una  found  the  most 
interest. 

On  her  first  day  in  the  office  she  had  been  startled  by  an 
astounding  young  man  who  had  come  flying  past  her  desk, 
with  his  coat  off,  his  figured  waistcoat  half  open,  his  red 
four-in-hand  tie  askew  under  a  rolling  soft  collar.  He  had 
dashed  up  to  the  office-manager  and  demanded,  "Say! 
Say!  Nat!  Got  that  Kokomobile  description  copied  for 
me  yet?  Heh?  Gawd!  you're  slow.  Got  a  cigarette?" 
He  went  off,  puffing  out  cigarette  smoke,  shaking  his 
head  and  audibly  muttering,  "Slow  bunch,  werry."  He 
seemed  to  be  of  Una's  own  age,  or  perhaps  a  year  older — 
a  slender  young  man  with  horn-rimmed  eye-glasses,  curly 
black  hair,  and  a  trickle  of  black  mustache.  His  sleeves 
were  rolled  up  to  his  elbow,  and  Una  had  a  secret,  shamed, 
shivering  thrill  in  the  contrast  of  the  dead- white  skin  of 
his  thin  forearms  with  the  long,  thick,  soft,  black  hairs 
matted  over  them.  They  seemed  at  once  feminine  and 
acidly  male. 

"  Crazy  idiot,"  she  observed,  apparently  describing  her 
self  and  the  nervous  young  man  together.  But  she  knew 
that  she  wanted  to  see  him  again. 

She  discovered  that  he  was  prone  to  such  violent  ap 
pearances;  that  his  name  was  Walter  Babson;  that  he 
was  one  of  the  three  desk  editors  under  the  managing 
editor;  that  the  stenographers  and  office-boys  alternately 

[49] 


THE   JOB 

disapproved  of  him,  because  he  went  on  sprees  and  bor 
rowed  money  from  anybody  in  sight,  and  adored  him 
because  he  was  democratically  frank  with  them.  He  was 
at  once  a  hero,  clown,  prodigal  son,  and  preacher  of  hon 
esty.  It  was  variously  said  that  he  was  a  socialist,  an 
anarchist,  and  a  believer  in  an  American  monarchy,  which 
he  was  reported  as  declaring  would  "give  some  color  to 
this  flat-faced  province  of  a  country."  It  was  related  that 
he  had  been  "fresh"  even  to  the  owner,  and  had  escaped 
discharge  only  by  being  the  quickest  worker  in  the  office, 
the  best  handy  man  at  turning  motor  statistics  into  lively 
news-stories.  Una  saw  that  he  liked  to  stand  about, 
bawling  to  the  quizzical  S.  Herbert  Ross  that  "this  is 
a  hell  of  a  shop  to  work  in — rotten  pay  and  no  esprit  de 
corps.  I'd  quit  and  free-lance  if  I  could  break  in  with 
fiction,  but  a  rotten  bunch  of  log-rollers  have  got 
the  inside  track  with  all  the  magazines  and  book- 
publishers." 

"Ever  try  to  write  any  fiction?"  Una  once  heard  S. 
Herbert  retort. 

"No,  but  Lord!  any  fool  could  write  better  stuff  than 
they  publish.  It's  all  a  freeze-out  game;  editors  just  ac 
cept  stuff  by  their  friends." 

In  one  week  Una  heard  Walter  Babson  make  approxi 
mately  the  same  assertions  to  three  different  men,  and  to 
whoever  in  the  open  office  might  care  to  listen  and  profit 
thereby.  Then,  apparently,  he  ceased  to  hear  the  call  of 
literature,  and  he  snorted  at  S.  Herbert  Ross's  stodgy 
assistant  that  he  was  a  wage-slave,  and  a  fool  not  to  form 
a  clerks'  union.  In  a  week  or  two  he  was  literary  again. 
He  dashed  down  to  the  office-manager,  poked  a  sheet  of 
copy-paper  at  him,  and  yelped:  "Say,  Nat.  Read  that 
and  tell  me  just  what  you  think  of  it.  I'm  going  to  put 
some  literary  flavor  into  the  Gas-bag  even  if  it  does  explode 

[50] 


THE    JOB 

it.  Look — see.  I've  taken  a  boost  for  the  Kells  Karbu- 
retor — rotten  lying  boost  it  is,  too — and  turned  it  into 
this  running  verse,  read  it  like  prose,  pleasant  and  easy 
to  digest,  especially  beneficial  to  children  and  S.  Herbert 
Souse,  Sherbert  Souse,  I  mean."  He  rapidly  read  an 
amazing  lyric  beginning,  "Motorists,  you  hadn't  better 
monkey  with  the  carburetor,  all  the  racers,  all  the  swells, 
have  equipped  their  cars  with  Kells.  We  are  privileged 
to  announce  what  will  give  the  trade  a  jounce,  that  the 
floats  have  been  improved  like  all  motorists  would  have 
loved." 

He  broke  off  and  shouted,  "Punk  last  line,  but  I'll  fix 
it  up.  Say,  that  '11  get  'em  all  going,  eh?  Say,  I  bet  the 
Kells  people  use  it  in  bill-board  ads.  all  over  the  country, 
and  maybe  sign  my  name.  Ads.,  why  say,  it  takes  a 
literary  guy  to  write  ads.,  not  a  fat-headed  commercialist 
like  S.  Charlie  Hoss." 

Two  days  later  Una  heard  Babson  come  out  and  lament 
that  the  managing  editor  didn't  like  his  masterpiece  and 
was  going  to  use  the  Kells  Karburetor  Kompany's  original 
write-up.  "  That's  what  you  get  when  you  try  to  give  the 
Gas-bag  some  literary  flavor — don't  appreciate  it!" 

She  would  rather  have  despised  him,  except  that  he 
stopped  by  the  office-boys'  bench  to  pull  their  hair  and 
tell  them  to  read  English  dictionaries.  And  when  Miss 
Moynihan  looked  dejected,  Babson  demanded  of  her, 
"What's  trouble,  girlie?  Anybody  I  can  lick  for  you? 
Glad  to  fire  the  owner,  or  anything.  Haven't  met  you 
yet,  but  my  name  is  Roosevelt,  and  I'm  the  new  janitor," 
with  a  hundred  other  chuckling  idiocies,  till  Miss  Moyni 
han  was  happy  again.  Una  warmed  to  his  friendliness, 
like  that  of  a  tail-wagging  little  yellow  pup. 

And  always  she  craved  the  touch  of  his  dark,  blunt, 
nervous  hands.  Whenever  he  lighted  a  cigarette  she  was 

[51] 


THE    JOB 

startled  by  his  masculine  way  of  putting  out  the  match 
and  jerking  it  away  from  him  in  one  abrupt  motion.  .  .  . 
She  had  never  studied  male  mannerisms  before.    To  Miss 
Golden  of  Panama  men  had  always  been  "the  boys." 
All  this  time  Walter  Bab  son  had  never  spoken  to  her. 


CHAPTER  V 

rflHE  office-manager  came  casually  up  to  Una's  desk 
A  and  said,  "You  haven't  taken  any  dictation  yet, 
have  you?" 

"No,  but,"  with  urgent  eagerness,  "I'd  like —  I'm 
quite  fast  in  stenography." 

"Well,  Mr.  Babson,  in  the  editorial  department,  wants 
to  give  some  dictation  and  you  might  try — " 

Una  was  so  excited  that  she  called  herself  a  silly  little 
fool.  She  seized  her  untouched  note-book,  her  pencils 
sharpened  like  lances,  and  tried  to  appear  a  very  mouse  of 
modesty  as  she  marched  down  the  office  to  take  her  first 
real  dictation,  to  begin  her  triumphant  career.  .  .  .  And 
to  have  Walter  Babson,  the  beloved  fool,  speak  to  her. 

It  was  a  cold  shock  to  have  to  stand  waiting  behind 
Babson  while  he  rummaged  in  his  roll-top  desk  and  ap 
parently  tried  to  pull  out  his  hair.  He  looked  back  at  her 
and  blurted,  "Oh!  You,  Miss  Golden?  They  said  you'd 
take  some  dictation.  Chase  those  blue-prints  off  that 
chair  and  sit  down.  Be  ready  in  a  sec." 

While  she  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  chair  Babson  yanked 
out  drawers,  plunged  his  wriggling  hands  into  folders, 
thrashed  through  a  pile  of  papers  and  letters  that  over 
flowed  a  wire  basket,  and  even  hauled  a  dictionary  down 
from  the  top  of  the  desk  and  hopefully  peered  inside  the 
front  cover.  All  the  time  he  kept  up  comment  at  which 
Lna  smiled  doubtfully,  not  quite  sure  whether  it  was 
meant  for  her  or  not: 

[53] 


THE    JOB 

"Now  what  the  doggone  doggonishness  did  I  ever  do 
with  those  doggone  notes,  anyway?  I  ask  you,  in  the — 
Here  they—  Nope—" 

At  last  he  found  inside  a  book  on  motor  fuels  the  wad 
of  copy-paper  on  which  he  had  scrawled  notes  with  a 
broad,  soft  pencil,  and  he  began  to  dictate  a  short  article 
on  air-cooling.  Una  was  terrified  lest  she  be  unable  to 
keep  up,  but  she  had  read  recent  numbers  of  the  Gazette 
thoroughly,  she  had  practised  the  symbols  for  motor 
technologies,  and  she  was  not  troubled  by  being  watched. 
Indeed,  Babson  seemed  to  have  enough  to  do  in  keeping 
his  restless  spirit  from  performing  the  dismaying  feat  of 
leaping  straight  out  of  his  body.  He  leaned  back  in  his 
revolving  desk-chair  with  a  complaining  squawk  from 
the  spring,  he  closed  his  eyes,  put  his  fingers  together 
piously,  then  seized  the  chair-arms  and  held  them,  while 
he  cocked  one  eye  open  and  squinted  at  a  large  alarm- 
clock  on  the  desk.  He  sighed  profoundly,  bent  forward, 
gazed  at  his  ankle,  and  reached  forward  to  scratch  it. 
All  this  time  he  was  dictating,  now  rapidly,  now  gurgling 
and  grunting  while  he  paused  to  find  a  word. 

"Don't  be  so  nervous!"  Una  wanted  to  scream  at  him, 
and  she  wanted  to  add,  "You  didn't  ask  my  permission!" 
when  he  absently  fumbled  in  a  cigarette-box. 

She  didn't  like  Walter  Babson,  after  all! 

But  he  stopped  after  a  rhapsody  on  the  divine  merits  of 
an  air-cooling  system,  clawed  his  billowing  black  hair, 
and  sighed,  "Sounds  improbable,  don't  it?  Must  be  true, 
though;  it's  going  to  appear  in  the  Gazette,  and  that's 
the  motor-dealer's  bible.  If  you  don't  believe  it,  read 
the  blurbs  we  publish  about  ourselves!"  Then  he  solemnly 
winked  at  her  and  went  on  dictating. 

When  he  had  finished  he  demanded,  "Ever  take  any 

dictation  in  this  office  before?" 

[54] 


THE    JOB 

"No,  sir." 

"Ever  take  any  motor  dictation  at  all?" 

"No,  sir." 

"Then  you'd  better  read  that  back  to  me.  Your  im- 
mejit  boss  —  the  office-manager  —  is  all  right,  but  the  sec 
retary  of  the  company  is  always  pussy-footing  around, 
and  if  you're  ever  having  any  trouble  with  your  stuff  when 
old  plush-ears  is  in  sight,  keep  on  typing  fast,  no  matter 
what  you  put  down.  Now  read  me  the  dope." 

It  was  approximately  correct.  He  nodded,  and,  "  Good 
work,  little  girl,"  he  said.  "You'll  get  along  all  right. 
You  get  my  dictation  better  than  that  agitated  antelope 
Miss  Harman  does,  right  now.  That's  all." 


So  far  as  anything  connected  with  Walter  Babson  could 
be  regular,  Una  became  his  regular  stenographer,  besides 
keeping  up  her  copying.  He  was  always  rushing  out, 
apologizing  for  troubling  her,  sitting  on  the  edge  of  her 
desk,  dictating  a  short  letter,  and  advising  her  to  try  his 
latest  brand  of  health  food,  which,  this  spring,  was  bran 
biscuits  —  probably  combined  with  highballs  and  too  much 
coffee.  The  other  stenographers  winked  at  him,  and  he 
teased  them  about  their  coiffures  and  imaginary  sweet 
hearts.  .  .  .  For  three  days  the  women's  coat-room  boiled 
with  giggles  over  Babson's  declaration  that  Miss  Mac- 
Throstle  was  engaged  to  a  burglar,  and  was  taking  a  cor 
respondence  course  in  engraving  in  order  to  decorate  her 
poor  dear  husband's  tools  with  birds  and  poetic  mottoes. 

Babson  was  less  jocular  with  Una  than  with  the  bounc 
ing  girls  who  were  natives  of  Harlem.  But  he  smiled  at 
her,  as  though  they  were  understanding  friends,  and  once 
he  said,  but  quietly,  rather  respectfully,  "You  have  nice 

[55] 


THE    JOB 

hair — soft."  She  lay  awake  to  croon  that  to  herself, 
though  she  denied  that  she  was  in  love  with  this  eccentric 
waster. 

Always  Babson  kept  up  his  ejaculations  and  fidgeting. 
He  often  accused  himself  of  shiftlessness  and  begged  her 
to  make  sure  that  he  dictated  certain  matter  before  he 
escaped  for  the  evening.  "Come  in  and  bother  the  life 
out  of  me.  Come  in  every  half -hour,"  he  would  say. 
When  she  did  come  in  he  would  crow  and  chuckle,  "Nope. 
I  refuse  to  be  tempted  yet;  I  am  a  busy  man.  But  maybe 
I'll  give  you  those  verbal  jewels  of  great  price  on  your 
next  visitation,  oh  thou  in  the  vocative — some  Latin 
scholar,  eh?  Keep  it  up,  kid;  good  work.  Maybe  you'll 
keep  me  from  being  fired." 

Usually  he  gave  her  the  dictation  before  he  went.  But 
not  always.  And  once  he  disappeared  for  four  days — on 
a  drunk,  everybody  said,  in  excited  office  gossip. 

During  Babson's  desertion  the  managing  editor  called 
Una  in  and  demanded,  "Did  Mr.  Babson  give  you  some 
copy  about  the  Manning  Wind  Shield?  No?  Will  you 
take  a  look  in  his  desk  for  his  notes  about  it?" 

While  Una  was  fumbling  for  the  notes  she  did  not  expect 
to  find,  she  went  through  all  the  agony  of  the  little  shawled 
foreign  wife  for  the  husband  who  has  been  arrested. 

"I've  got  to  help  you!"  she  said  to  his  desk,  to  his  bag 
of  Bull  Durham,  to  his  alarm-clock — even  to  a  rather 
shocking  collection  of  pictures  of  chorus-girls  and  diapha- 
nously-clad  dancers  which  was  pasted  inside  the  double 
drawer  on  the  right  side  of  the  desk.  In  her  great  surge 
of  emotion,  she  noticed  these  posturing  hussies  far  less 
than  she  did  a  little  volume  of  Rosetti,  or  the  overshoes 
whose  worn  toes  suddenly  revealed  to  her  that  Walter 
Babson,  the  editor,  was  not  rich — was  not,  perhaps,  so 

very  much  better  paid  than  herself. 

[56] 


THE    JOB 

She  did  not  find  the  notes.  She  had  to  go  to  the  manag 
ing  editor,  trembling,  all  her  good  little  heart  wild  with 
pain.  The  editor's  brows  made  a  V  at  her  report,  and  he 
grunted,  "Well—" 

For  two  days,  till  Walter  Babson  returned,  she  never 
failed  to  look  up  when  the  outer  door  of  the  office  opened. 

She  found  herself  immensely  interested  in  trying  to 
discover,  from  her  low  plane  as  copyist,  just  what 
sort  of  a  position  Walter  Babson  occupied  up  among 
the  select  souls.  Nor  was  it  very  difficult.  The  editor's 
stenographer  may  not  appreciate  all  the  subtleties  of 
his  wit,  and  the  refinements  of  his  manner  may  leave 
her  cold,  but  she  does  hear  things,  she  hears  the  Big 
Chief's  complaints. 

Una  discovered  that  the  owner  and  the  managing  editor 
did  not  regard  Walter  Babson  as  a  permanent  prop  of  the 
institution;  that  they  would  keep  him,  at  his  present 
salary  of  twenty-five  dollars  a  week,  only  till  some  one 
happened  in  who  would  do  the  same  work  for  less  money. 
His  prose  was  clever  but  irregular;  he  wasn't  always  to 
be  depended  upon  for  grammar;  in  everything  he  was 
unstable;  yet  the  owner's  secretary  reported  the  owner 
as  saying  that  some  day,  if  Babson  married  the  right 
woman,  he  would  "settle  down  and  make  good." 

Una  did  not  dare  to  make  private  reservations  regarding 
what  "the  right  woman"  ought  to  mean  in  this  case,  but 
she  burned  at  the  thought  of  Walter  Babson's  marrying, 
and  for  an  instant  she  saw  quite  clearly  the  film  of  soft 
dark  hair  that  grew  just  below  his  sharp  cheek-bone. 
But  she  forgot  the  sweetness  of  the  vision  in  scorn  of 
herself  for  even  thinking  of  marriage  with  a  weakling; 
scorn  of  herself  for  aspiring  to  marry  a  man  who  regarded 
her  as  only  a  dull  stenographer;  and  a  maternal  anxiety 
'over  him  that  was  untouched  by  passion. 

5  [57] 


THE    JOB 

Babson  returned  to  the  office,  immaculate,  a  thin,  fiery 
soul.  But  he  was  closeted  with  the  secretary  of  the  com 
pany  for  an  hour,  and  when  he  came  out  his  step  was  slow. 
He  called  for  Una  and  dictated  articles  in  a  quiet  voice, 
with  no  jesting.  His  hand  was  unsteady,  he  smoked 
cigarettes  constantly,  and  his  eye  was  an  unwholesome 
yellow. 

She  said  to  him  suddenly,  a  few  days  later,  "  Mr.  Bab- 
son,  I'd  be  glad  if  I  could  take  care  of  any  papers  or  any 
thing  for  you." 

"Thanks.  You  might  stick  these  chassis  sketches  away 
some  place  right  now." 

So  she  was  given  the  chance  to  keep  his  desk  straight. 
He  turned  to  her  for  everything. 

He  said  to  her,  abruptly,  one  dreary  late  afternoon  of 
April  when  she  felt  immensely  languid  and  unambitious: 
"You're  going  to  succeed — unless  you  marry  some  dub. 
But  there's  one  rule  for  success — mind  you,  I  don't  follow 
it  myself,  I  can't,  but  it's  a  grand  old  hunch :  *  If  you  want 
to  get  on,  always  be  ready  to  occupy  the  job  just  ahead 
of  you.'  Only — what  the  devil  is  the  job  just  ahead  of  a 
stenog.r  I've  been  thinking  of  you  and  wondering. 
What  is  it?" 

"Honestly,  Mr.  Babson,  I  don't  know.  Here,  anyway. 
Unless  it's  lieutenant  of  the  girls." 

"Yvrell — oh,  that's  just  miffle-business,  that  kind  of  a 
job.  Well,  you'd  better  learn  to  express  yourself,  anyway. 
Some  time  you  women  folks  will  come  into  your  own  with 
both  feet.  Whenever  you  get  the  chance,  take  my  notes 
and  try  to  write  a  better  spiel  from  them  than  I  do.  .  .  . 
That  won't  be  hard,  I  guess!" 

"I  don't  know  why  you  are  so  modest,  Mr.  Babson. 
Every  girl  in  the  office  thinks  you  write  better  than  any 

of  the  other  editors." 

'[58] 


THE   JOB 

"Yuh— but  they  don't  know.  They  think  that  just 
because  I  chuck  'em  under  the  chin.  I  can't  do  this  tech 
nical  stuff.  .  .  .  Oh,  Lord!  what  an  evening  it  '11  be !  ...  I 
suppose  I'll  go  to  a  show.  Nice,  lonely  city,  what?  .  .  . 
You  come  from  here?" 

"From  Pennsylvania." 

"Got  any  folks?" 

"My  mother  is  here  with  me." 

"That's  nice.  I'll  take  her  and  you  to  some  bum  two- 
bit  vaudeville  show  some  night,  if  you'd  like.  .  .  .  Got  to 
show  my  gratitude  to  you  for  standing  my  general 
slovenliness.  .  .  .  Lord!  nice  evening — dine  at  a  rotisserie 
with  a  newspaper  for  companion.  Well — g'  night  and  g' 
luck." 

Una  surprised  her  mother,  when  they  were  vivisecting 
the  weather  after  dinner,  by  suddenly  crying  all  over  the 
sofa  cushions. 

She  knew  all  of  Walter  Babson's  life  from  those  two  or 
three  sentences  of  his. 

§3 

TJ 

Francois  Villons  America  has  a-plenty.  An  astonish 
ing  number  of  Americans  with  the  literary  itch  do  con 
trive  to  make  a  living  out  of  that  affliction.  They  write 
motion-picture  scenarios  and  fiction  for  the  maga 
zines  that  still  regard  detective  stories  as  the  zenith  of 
original  art.  They  gather  in  woman-scented  flats  to  dis 
cuss  sex,  or  in  hard-voiced  groups  to  play  poker.  They 
seem  to  find  in  the  creation  of  literature  very  little  be 
sides  a  way  of  evading  regular  office  hours.  Below  this 
stratum  of  people  so  successful  that  one  sometimes  sees 
their  names  in  print  is  the  yearning  band  of  young  men 
who  want  to  write.  Just  to  write — not  to  write  anything 

in  particular;    not  to  express  any  definite  thought,  but 

[59] 


THE   JOB 

to  be  literary,  to  be  Bohemian,  to  dance  with  slim  young 
authoresses  of  easy  morals,  and  be  jolly  dogs  and  free 
souls.  Some  of  them  are  dramatists  with  unacted 
dramas;  some  of  them  do  free  verse  which  is  just  as  free 
as  the  productions  of  regular  licensed  poets.  Some  of 
them  do  short  stories — striking,  rather  biological,  very 
destructive  of  conventions.  Some  of  them  are  ever  so 
handy  at  ail  forms;  they  are  perennial  candidates  for  any 
job  as  book-reviewer,  dramatic  critic,  or  manuscript- 
reader,  since  they  have  the  naive  belief  that  these 
occupations  require  neither  toil  nor  training,  and  enable 
one  to  "write  on  the  side."  Meanwhile  they  make  their 
livings  as  sub-editors  on  trade  journals,  as  charity- 
workers,  or  as  assistants  to  illiterate  literary  agents. 

To  this  slum  of  literature  Walter  Babson  belonged. 
He  felt  that  lie  was  an  author,  though  none  of  his  poetry 
had  ever  been  accepted,  and  though  he  had  never  got  be 
yond  the  first  chapter  of  any  of  his  novels,  nor  the  first 
act  of  any  of  his  plays  (which  concerned  authors  who 
roughly  resembled  Walter  Babson). 

He  was  distinguished  from  his  fellows  by  the  fact  that 
each  year  he  grew  more  aware  that  he  hadn't  even  a  dim 
candle  of  talent;  that  he  was  ill-planned  and  unpurposed; 
that  he  would  have  to  settle  down  to  the  ordinary  gray 
limbo  of  jobs  and  offices — as  soon  as  he  could  get  control 
of  his  chaotic  desires.  Literally,  he  hated  himself  at  times; 
hated  his  own  egotism,  his  treacherous  appetite  for  drink 
and  women  and  sloth,  his  imitative  attempts  at  literature. 
But  no  one  knew  how  bitterly  he  despised  himself,  in 
lonely  walks  in  the  rain,  in  savage  pacing  about  his  fur 
nished  room.  To  others  he  seemed  vigorously  conceited, 
cock-sure,  noisily  ready  to  blame  the  world  for  his  own 
failures. 

Walter  Babson  was  born  in  Kansas.    His  father  was  a 

[60] 


THE    JOB 

farmer  and  horse-doctor,  a  heavy  drinker,  an  eccentric 
who  joined  every  radical  political  movement.  In  a  country 
school,  just  such  a  one  as  Una  had  taught,  then  in  high 
school  in  a  near-by  town,  Walter  had  won  all  the  prizes  for 
essays  and  debating,  and  had  learned  a  good  deal  about 
Shakespeare  and  Caesar  and  George  Washington.  Also  he 
had  learned  a  good  deal  about  drinking  beer,  smoldng 
manfully,  and  tempting  the  giggling  girls  who  hung  about 
the  "deepot."  He  ran  away  from  high  school,  and  in  the 
most  glorious  years  of  his  life  worked  his  way  down  the 
Mississippi  and  up  the  Rio  Grande,  up  to  Alaska  and  down 
to  Costa  Rica,  a  butt  and  jester  for  hoboes,  sailors,  long 
shoremen,  miners,  cow-punchers,  lunch-room  owners, 
and  proprietors  of  small  newspapers.  He  learned  to  stick 
type  and  run  a  press.  He  returned  to  Kansas  and  worked 
on  a  country  newspaper,  studying  poetry  and  college- 
entrance  requirements  in  the  evening.  He  had,  at  this 
time,  the  not  entirely  novel  idea  that  "he  ought  to  be 
able  to  make  a  lot  of  good  fiction  out  of  all  his  experiences." 
Actually,  he  had  no  experiences,  because  he  had  no  in 
stinct  for  beauty.  The  proof  is  that  he  read  quite  solemn 
ly  and  reverently  a  vile  little  periodical  for  would-be 
authors,  which  reduced  authorship  to  a  way  of  earning 
one's  living  by  supplying  editors  with  cheap  but  ingenious 
items  to  fill  space.  It  put  literature  on  a  level  with  keep 
ing  a  five-and-ten-cent  store.  But  Walter  conned  its 
pompous  trade  journal  discussions  as  to  whether  the 
name  and  address  of  the  author  should  be  typed  on  the 
left  or  the  right  side  of  the  first  page  of  a  manuscript; 
its  lively  little  symposia,  by  such  successful  market- 
gardeners  of  literature  as  Mamie  Stuyvesant  Blupp  and 
Bill  Brown  and  Dr.  J.  F.  Fitzneff,  on  the  inspiring  sub 
ject  of  whether  it  paid  better  to  do  filler  verse  for  cheap 

magazines,  or  long  verse  for  the  big  magazines.    At  the 

[61] 


THE   JOB 

end,  this  almost  madly  idealistic  journal  gave  a  list  of 
wants  of  editors;  the  editor  of  Lingerie  and  Laughter 
wanted  "short,  snappy  stuff  with  a  kick  in  it;  especially 
good  yarns  about  models,  grisettes,  etc."  Wanderlust  was 
in  the  market  for  "stories  with  a  punch  that  appealed  to 
every  red-blooded  American;  nothing  about  psychology, 
problems,  Europe,  or  love  wanted."  The  Plymouth  Rock 
Fancier  announced  that  it  could  use  "a  good,  lively  rural 
poem  every  week;  must  be  clean  and  original." 

Pathos  there  was  in  all  of  this;  the  infinitely  little  men 
and  women  daring  to  buy  and  sell  "short,  snappy  stuff" 
in  this  somber  and  terribly  beautiful  world  of  Balzac  and 
Wells  and  Turgenieff.  And  pathos  there  was  in  that 
wasted  year  when  Walter  Babson  sought  to  climb  from 
the  gossiping  little  prairie  town  to  the  grandeur  of  great 
capitals  by  learning  to  be  an  efficient  manufacturer  of 
"good,  lively  rural  poems."  He  neglected  even  his  college- 
entrance  books,  the  Ruskin  whose  clots  of  gilt  might 
have  trained  him  to  look  for  real  gold,  and  the  stilted 
Burke  who  might  have  given  him  a  vision  of  empires 
and  races  and  social  destinies.  And  for  his  pathetic 
treachery  he  wasn't  even  rewarded.  His  club-footed 
verses  were  always  returned  with  printed  rejection  slips. 

When  at  last  he  barely  slid  into  Jonathan  Edwards 
College,  Iowa,  Walter  was  already  becoming  discouraged; 
already  getting  the  h^bit  of  blaming  the  gods,  capitalists, 
editors,  his  father,  the  owner  of  the  country  newspaper 
on  which  he  had  been  working,  for  everything  that  went 
wrong.  He  yammered  destructive  theories  which  would 
have  been  as  obnoxious  to  a  genuine  fighting  revolutionist 
as  they  were  sacrilegious  to  his  hard-fisted,  earnest,  rustic 
classmates  in  Jonathan  Edwards.  For  Walter  was  not 
protesting  against  social  injustice.  The  slavery  of  rubber- 
gatherers  in  the  Putumayo  and  of  sweatshop-workers  in 

[62] 


THE    JOB 

New  York  did  not  exist  for  him.  He  was  protesting  be 
cause,  at  the  age  of  twenty,  his  name  was  not  appearing 
in  large  flattering  capitals  on  the  covers  of  magazines. 

Yet  he  was  rather  amusing;  he  helped  plodding  class 
mates  with  their  assignments,  and  he  was  an  active  par 
ticipant  in  all  worthy  movements  to  raise  hell — as  they 
admirably  described  it.  By  the  end  of  his  Freshman  year 
he  had  given  up  all  attempts  to  be  a  poet  and  to  extract 
nourishment  from  the  college  classes,  which  were  as  hard 
and  unpalatable  as  dried  codfish.  He  got  drunk,  he  vented 
his  energy  in  noisy  meetings  with  itinerant  files  de  joie, 
who  were  as  provincial  and  rustic,  as  bewildered  and  un 
fortunate  as  the  wild  country  boys,  who  in  them  found 
their  only  outlet  for  youth's  madness.  Walter  was 
abruptly  expelled  from  college  by  the  one  man  in  the 
college  whom  he  respected — the  saintly  president,  who 
had  dreams  of  a  new  Harvard  on  the  prairies. 

So  Walter  Babson  found  himself  at  twenty-one  an  out 
cast.  He  declaimed — though  no  one  would  believe  him 
— that  all  the  gentle  souls  he  had  ever  encountered  were 
weak;  all  the  virile  souls  vicious  or  suspicious. 

He  drifted.  He  doubted  himself,  and  all  the  more 
noisily  asserted  his  talent  and  the  injustice  of  the  world. 
He  looked  clean  and  energetic  and  desirous,  but  he  had 
nothing  on  which  to  focus.  He  became  an  active  but 
careless  reporter  on  newspapers  in  Wichita,  Des  Moines, 
Kansas  City,  St.  Louis,  Seattle,  Los  Angeles,  San  Fran 
cisco.  Between  times  he  sold  real-estate  and  insurance 
and  sets  of  travel  books,  for  he  had  no  pride  of  journalism; 
he  wanted  to  keep  going  and  keep  interested  and  make 
money  and  spend  it;  he  wanted  to  express  himself  with 
out  trying  to  find  out  what  his  self  was. 

It  must  be  understood  that,  for  all  his  vices,  Walter 
was  essentially  clean  and  kindly.  He  rushed  into  every- 

[63] 


THE   JOB 

thing,  the  bad  with  the  good.  He  was  not  rotten  with 
heavy  hopelessness;  though  he  was  an  outcast  from  his 
home,  he  was  never  a  pariah.  Not  Walter,  but  the  smug, 
devilish  cities  which  took  their  revenues  from  saloon- 
keeping  were  to  blame  when  he  turned  from  the  intoler 
able  dullness  of  their  streets  to  the  excitement  of  alcohol 
in  the  saloons  and  brothels  which  they  made  so  much 
more  amusing  than  their  churches  and  parlors. 

Everywhere  in  the  Western  newspaper  circles  Walter 
heard  stories  of  Californians  who  had  gone  East  and  be 
come  geniuses  the  minute  they  crossed  the  Hudson.  .  .  . 
Walter  also  went  East  and  crossed  the  Hudson,  but  he 
did  not  become  a  genius.  If  there  had  been  an  attic  to 
starve  in,  he  would  have  starved  in  one,  but  as  New  York 
has  nothing  so  picturesque,  he  starved  in  furnished  rooms 
instead,  while  he  wrote  "  special  stories  "  for  Sunday  news 
papers,  and  collected  jokes  for  a  syndicated  humorous 
column.  He  was  glad  to  become  managing  editor  (though 
he  himself  was  the  only  editor  he  had  to  manage)  of  a 
magazine  for  stamp-collectors.  He  wrote  some  advertise 
ments  for  a  Broadway  dealer  in  automobile  accessories, 
read  half  a  dozen  books  on  motors,  and  brazenly  demanded 
his  present  position  on  the  Motor  and  Gas  Gazette. 

He  was  as  far  from  the  rarified  air  of  Bohemia  (he  really 
believed  that  sort  of  thing)  as  he  had  been  in  Kansas, 
except  that  he  knew  one  man  who  made  five  thousand 
dollars  a  year  by  writing  stories  about  lumberjacks, 
miners,  cow-punchers,  and  young  ladies  of  quite  astound 
ing  courage.  He  was  twenty-seven  years  old  when  he 
met  Una  Golden.  He  still  read  Omar  Khayyam.  He 
had  a  vague  plan  of  going  into  real  estate.  There 
ought,  he  felt,  to  be  money  in  writing  real-estate  advertise 
ments. 

He  kept  falling  in  love  with  stenographers  and  wait- 

[64] 


THE    JOB 

resses,  with  actresses  whom  he  never  met.  He  was 
never  satisfied.  He  didn't  at  all  know  what  he  wanted, 
but  he  wanted  something  stronger  than  himself. 

He  was  desperately  lonely — a  humorous  figure  who  had 
dared  to  aspire  beyond  the  manure-piles  of  his  father's 
farm;  therefore  a  young  man  to  be  ridiculed.  And  in 
his  tragic  loneliness  he  waited  for  the  day  when  he  should 
find  any  love,  any  labor,  that  should  want  him  enough 
to  seek  him  and  demand  that  he  sacrifice  himself. 

§4 

It  was  Una's  first  city  spring. 

Save  in  the  squares,  where  the  bourgeoning  tr^es  made 
green-lighted  spaces  for  noon-time  lovers,  there  was  no 
change;  no  blossomy  stir  in  asphalt  and  cement  and 
brick  and  steel.  Yet  everything  was  changed.  Between 
the  cornices  twenty  stories  above  the  pavement  you 
could  see  a  slit  of  softer  sky,  and  there  was  a  peculiar 
radiance  in  just  the  light  itself,  whether  it  lay  along  the 
park  turf  or  made  its  way  down  an  air- well  to  rest  on  a 
stolid  wall  of  yellow  brick.  The  river  breeze,  flowing  so 
persuasively  through  streets  which  had  been  stormed  by 
dusty  gales,  bore  happiness.  Grind-organs  made  music 
for  ragged,  dancing  children,  and  old  brick  buildings 
smelled  warm.  Peanut-wagons  came  out  with  a  long, 
shrill  whine,  locusts  of  the  spring. 

In  the  office  even  the  most  hustling  of  the  great  ones 
became  human.  They  talked  of  suburban  gardens  and 
of  motoring  out  to  country  clubs  for  tennis.  They  smiled 
more  readily,  and  shamelessly  said,  "I  certainly  got  the 
spring  fever  for  fair  to-day";  and  twice  did  S.  Herbert 
Ross  go  off  to  play  golf  all  afternoon.  The  stenographer 
who  commuted — always  there  is  one  girl  in  the  office  who 

[65] 


THE   JOB 

commutes — brought  spring  in  the  form  of  pussy-willows 
and  apple-blossoms,  and  was  noisily  envied. 

The  windows  were  open  now,  and  usually  some  one 
was  speculatively  looking  down  to  the  life  on  the  pave 
ment,  eight  stories  below.  At  noon-hour  the  younger 
girls  of  the  office  strolled  along  the  sidewalk  in  threes 
and  fours,  bareheaded,  their  arms  about  one  another, 
their  spring-time  lane  an  irregular  course  between  boxes 
in  front  of  loft-buildings;  or  they  ate  their  box-and- 
paper-napkin  lunches  on  the  fire-escape  that  wound  down 
into  the  court.  They  gigglingly  drew  their  skirts  about 
their  ankles  and  flirted  with  young  porters  and  packers  who 
leaned  from  windows  across  the  court.  Una  sat  with 
them  and  wished  that  she  could  flirt  like  the  daughters 
of  New  York.  She  listened  eagerly  to  their  talk  of  gather 
ing  violets  in  Van  Cortlandt  Park  and  tramping  on  the 
Palisades.  She  noted  an  increased  number  of  excited 
confidences  to  the  effect  that,  "He  says  to  me — "  and 
"I  says  to  him — "  and,  "Say,  gee!  honest,  Tess,  he's  a 
swell  fellow."  She  caught  herself  wanting  to  tramp  the 
Palisades  with — with  the  Walter  Babson  who  didn't 
even  know  her  first  name. 

When  she  left  the  flat  these  mornings  she  forgot  her 
lonely  mother  instantly  in  the  treacherous  magic  of  the 
tender  sky,  and  wanted  to  run  away,  to  steal  the  blue 
and  'silver  day  for  her  own.  But  it  was  gone  when  she 
reached  the  office — no  silver  and  blue  day  was  here;  but, 
on  golden-oak  desk  and  oak-and-frosted-glass  semi-parti 
tions,  the  same  light  as  in  the  winter.  Sometimes,  if  she 
got  out  early,  a  stilly  afterglow  of  amber  and  turquoise 
brought  back  the  spring.  But  all  day  long  she  merely 
saw  signs  that  otherwhere,  for  other  people,  spring  did 
exist;  and  she  wistfully  trusted  in  it  as  she  watched 

and  helped  Walter  Babson. 

[66] 


THE   JOB 

She  was  conscious  that  she  was  working  more  intimately 
with  him  as  a  comrade  now,  not  as  clerk  with  executive. 
There  had  been  no  one  illuminating  moment  of  under 
standing;  he  was  impersonal  with  her;  but  each  day 
their  relationship  was  less  of  a  mechanical  routine,  more 
of  a  personal  friendship.  She  felt  that  he  really  depended 
on  her  steady  carefulness;  she  knew  that  through  the 
wild  tangle  of  his  impulsiveness  she  saw  a  desire  to  be 
noble. 

§5 

He  came  clattering  down  the  aisle  of  desks  to  her  one 
May  afternoon,  and  begged,  "Say,  Miss  Golden,  I'm 
stuck.  I  got  to  get  out  some  publicity  on  the  Governor's 
good-roads  article  we're  going  to  publish;  want  to  send 
it  out  to  forty  papers  in  advance,  and  I  can't  get  only  a 
dozen  proofs.  And  it's  got  to  go  off  to-night.  Can  you 
make  me  some  copies?  You  can  use  onion-skin  paper  and 
carbon  'em  and  make  anyway  five  copies  at  a  whack.  But 
prob'ly  you'd  have  to  stay  late.  Got  anything  on  to 
night?  Could  you  do  it?  Could  you  do  it?  Could  you?'* 

"Surely." 

"Well,  here's  the  stuff.  Just  single-space  that  intro 
ductory  spiel  at  the  top,  will  you?" 

Una  rudely  turned  out  of  her  typewriter  a  form-letter 
which  she  was  writing  for  S.  Herbert  Ross,  and  began  to 
type  Walter's  publicity,  her  shoulders  bent,  her  eyes  in 
tent,  oblivious  to  the  steady  stream  of  gossip  which 
flowed  from  stenographer  to  stenographer,  no  matter  how 
busy  they  were.  He  needed  her !  She  would  have  stayed 
till  midnight.  While  the  keys  burred  under  her  fingers 
she  was  unconsciously  telling  herself  a  story  of  how  she 
would  be  working  half  the  night,  with  the  office  still  and 
shadowy,  of  how  a  dead-white  face  would  peer  through 

[67] 


THE    JOB 

the  window  near  her  desk  (difficult  of  accomplishment,  as 
the  window  was  eight  stories  up  in  air),  of  how  she  was 
to  be  pursued  by  a  man  on  the  way  home;  and  how, 
when  she  got  there,  her  mother  would  say,  "I  just  don't 
see  how  you  could  neglect  me  like  this  all  evening."  All 
the  while  she  felt  herself  in  touch  with  large  affairs — an 
article  by  the  Governor  of  the  State;  these  very  sheets 
that  she  was  typing  to  go  to  famous  newspapers,  to  the 
"thundering  presses"  of  which  she  had  read  in  fiction; 
urgency,  affairs,  and — doing  something  for  Walter  Babson. 

She  was  still  typing  swiftly  at  five-thirty,  the  closing 
hour.  The  article  was  long;  she  had  at  least  two  hours  of 
work  ahead.  Miss  Moynihan  came  stockily  to  say  good 
night.  The  other  stenographers  fluttered  out  to  the  ele 
vators.  Their  corner  became  oppressively  quiet.  The 
office-manager  gently  puttered  about,  bade  her  good-night, 
drifted  away.  S.  Herbert  Ross  boomed  out  of  his  office, 
explaining  the  theory  of  advertising  to  a  gasoleny  man 
in  a  pin-checked  suit  as  they  waddled  to  the  elevator. 
The  telephone-girl  hurried  back  to  connect  up  a  last 
call,  frowned  while  she  waited,  yanked  out  the  plug,  and 
scuttled  away — a  creamy,  roe-eyed  girl,  pretty  and  un 
happy  at  her  harassing  job  of  connecting  nervous  talkers 
all  day.  Four  men,  editors  and  advertising-men,  shoul 
dered  out,  bawling  over  a  rather  feeble  joke  about  Bill's 
desire  for  a  drink  and  their  willingness  to  help  him  slay 
the  booze-evil.  Una  was  conscious  that  they  had  gone, 
that  walls  of  silence  were  closing  about  her  clacking  type 
writer.  And  that  Walter  Babson  had  not  gone;  that  he 
was  sharing  with  her  this  whispering  forsaken  office. 

Presently  he  came  rambling  out  of  the  editorial-room. 

He  had  taken  off  his  grotesque,  great  horn-rimmed 
glasses.  His  eyes  were  mutinous  in  his  dark  melancholy 

face;    he  drew  a  hand  over  them  and  shook  his  head. 

[68] 


THE   JOB 

Una  was  aware  of  all  this  in  one  glance.  "  Poor,  tired  boy!" 
she  thought. 

He  sat  on  the  top  of  the  nearest  desk,  hugged  his  knee, 
rucked  back  and  forth,  and  said,  "Much  left,  Miss 
Golden?" 

"  I  think  I'll  be  through  in  about  two  hours." 

"Oh,  Lord!  I  can't  let  you  stay  that  late." 

"It  doesn't  matter.  Really!  I'll  be  glad.  I  haven't 
had  to  stay  late  much." 

For  quite  the  first  time  he  stared  straight  at  her,  saw 
her  as  a  human  being.  She  was  desperately  hoping  that 
her  hair  was  smooth  and  that  there  wasn't  any  blue  from 
the  typewriter  ribbon  daubed  on  her  cheeks ! . . .  He  ceased 
his  rocking;  appraised  her.  A  part  of  her  brain  was  won 
dering  what  he  would  do ;  a  part  longing  to  smile  tempting 
ly  at  him;  a  part  coldly  commanding,  "You  will  not  be 
a  little  fool — he  isn't  interested  in  you,  and  you  won't 
try  to  make  him  be,  either!" 

"Why,  you  look  as  fagged  as  I  feel,"  he  said.  "I  sup 
pose  I'm  as  bad  as  the  rest.  I  kick  like  a  steer  when  the 
Old  Man  shoves  some  extra  work  on  me,  and  then  I  pass 
the  buck  and  make  you  stay  late.  Say!  Tell  you  what 
we'll  do."  Very  sweet  to  her  was  his  "we,"  and  his  inti 
macy  of  tone.  "I'll  start  copying,  too.  I'm  quite  consid 
erable  at  machine-pounding  myself,  and  we  can  get  the 
thing  done  and  mailed  by  six-thirty  or  so,  and  then  I'll 
buy  you  a  handsome  dinner  at  Childs's.  Gosh !  I'll  even 
blow  you  to  a  piece  of  pie;  and  I'll  shoot  you  up  home  by 
quarter  to  eight.  Great  stuff!  Gimme  a  copy  of  the 
drool.  Meanwhile  you'll  have  a  whole  hour  for  worried 
maiden  thoughts  over  going  out  to  eat  with  the  bad, 
crazy  Wally  Babson!" 

His  smile  was  a  caress.  Her  breath  caught,  she  smiled 
back  at  him  fearfully.  Then  he  was  gone.  In  the  editorial 


THE   JOB 

office  was  heard  the  banging  of  his  heavy  old  typewriter-— 
it  was  an  office  joke,  Walter's  hammering  of  the  "thresh 
ing-machine." 

She  began  to  type  again,  with  mechanical  rapidity, 
not  consciously  seeing  the  copy,  so  distraught  was  she 
as  she  murmured,  "  Oh,  I  oughtn't  to  go  out  with  him.  . .  . 
But  I  will!  .  .  .  What  nonsense!  Why  shouldn't  I  have 
dinner  with  him.  .  .  ,  Oh,  I  mustn't — I'm  a  typist  and  he's 
a  boss But  I  will!" 

Glancing  down  the  quiet  stretches  of  the  office,  to  the 
windows  looking  to  westward,  she  saw  that  the  sky  was 
a  delicate  primrose.  In  a  loft-building  rearing  out  of  the 
low  structures  between  her  and  the  North  River,  lights 
were  springing  out,  and  she — who  ought  to  have  known 
that  they  marked  weary,  late-staying  people  like  herself, 
fancied  that  they  were  the  lights  of  restaurants  for  gay 
lovers.  She  dismissed  her  problem,  forgot  the  mother 
who  was  waiting  with  a  demand  for  all  of  Una's  youth, 
and  settled  down  to  a  happy  excitement  in  the  prospect 
of  going  out  with  Walter;  of  knowing  him,  of  feeling  again 
that  smile. 

He  came  prancing  out  with  his  copies  of  the  article 
before  she  had  finished.  "Some  copyist,  eh?"  he  cried. 
"Say,  hustle  and  finish.  Gee!  I've  been  smoking  ciga 
rettes  to-day  till  my  mouth  tastes  like  a  fish-market. 
Want  to  eat  and  forget  my  troubles." 

With  her  excitement  dulled  to  a  matter-of-fact  hun- 
griness,  she  trotted  beside  him  to  a  restaurant,  one  of 
the  string  of  Vance  eating  -  places,  a  food -mill  which 
tried  to  achieve  originality  by  the  use  of  imitation  rafters, 
a  plate-rack  aligned  with  landscape  plates,  and  varnished 
black  tables  for  four  instead  of  the  long,  marble  tables 
which  crowded  the  patrons  together  in  most  places  of  the 
sort.  Walter  verbosely  called  her  attention  to  the  mot- 

[70] 


THE    JOB 

toes  painted  on  the  wood,  the  individual  table  lights  in 
pink  shades.  "Just  forget  the  eats,  Miss  Golden,  and  you 
can  imagine  you're  in  a  regular  restaurant.  Gosh!  this 
place  ought  to  reconcile  you  to  dining  with  the  crazy 
Babson.  I  can't  imagine  a  liaison  in  a  place  where  coffee 
costs  five  cents." 

He  sounded  boisterous,  but  he  took  her  coat  so  languidly, 
he  slid  so  loosely  into  his  chair,  that  she  burned  with  de 
sire  to  soothe  away  his  office  weariness.  She  forgot  all 
reserve.  She  burst  out:  "Why  do  you  call  yourself 
*  crazy'?  Just  because  you  have  more  energy  than  any 
body  else  in  the  office?" 

"No,"  he  said,  grimly,  snatching  at  the  menu,  "be 
cause  I  haven't  any  purpose  in  the  scheme  of  things." 

Una  told  herself  that  she  was  pleased  to  see  how  the 
scrawny  waitress  purred  at  Walter  when  he  gave  his 
order.  Actually  she  was  feeling  resentfully  that  no  saw- 
voiced,  galumphing  Amazon  of  a  waitress  could  appreciate 
Walter's  smile. 

In  a  Vance  eating-place,  ordering  a  dinner,  and  getting 
approximately  what  you  order,  is  not  a  delicate  epicurean 
art,  but  a  matter  of  business,  and  not  till  an  enormous 
platter  of  "Vance's  Special  Ham  and  Eggs,  Country 
Style,"  was  slammed  down  between  them,  and  catsup, 
Worcestershire  sauce,  napkins,  more  rolls,  water,  and  an 
other  fork  severally  demanded  of  the  darting  waitress, 
did  Walter  seem  to  remember  that  this  was  a  romantic 
dinner  with  a  strange  girl,  not  a  deal  in  food- supplies. 

His  wavering  black  eyes  searched  her  face.  She  was 
agitatedly  aware  that  her  skin  was  broken  out  in  a  small 
red  spot  beside  her  lips;  but  she  hoped  that  he  would 
find  her  forehead  clear,  her  mouth  a  flower.  He  suddenly 
nodded,  as  though  he  had  grown  used  to  her  and  found 
her  comfortable.  While  his  wreathing  hands  picked  fan- 

[71] 


THE    JOB 

tastically  at  a  roll  and  made  crosses  with  lumps  of  sugar?? 
his  questions  probed  at  that  hidden  soul  which  she  herself  i 
had  never  found.  It  was  the  first  time  that  any  one  had 
demanded  her  formula  of  life,  and  in  her  struggle  to  ex- 
press  herself  she  rose  into  a  frankness  which  Panama  circles 
of  courtship  did  not  regard  as  proper  to  young  women. 

"What's  your  ambition?"  he  blurted.  "Going  to  just 
plug  along  and  not  get  anywhere?" 

"No,  I'm  not;  but  it's  hard.  Women  aren't  trusted  in 
business,  and  you  can't  count  without  responsibility. 
All  I  can  do  is  keep  looking." 

"Go  out  for  suffrage,  feminism,  so  on?" 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  them.  Most  women 
don't  know  anything  about  them — about  anything!" 

"Huh!  Most  people  don't!  Wouldn't  have  office- 
grinding  if  people  did  know  anything.  .  .  .  How  much 
training  have  you  had?" 

"  Oh,  public  school,  high  school,  commercial  college." 

"Where?" 

"Panama,  Pennsylvania." 

"I  know.  About  like  my  own  school  in  Kansas — the 
high-school  principal  would  have  been  an  undertaker  if 
he'd  had  more  capital.  .  .  .  Gee!  principal  and  capital — 
might  make  a  real  cunning  pun  out  of  that  if  I  worked 
over  it  a  little.  I  know.  ...  Go  to  church?" 

"Why — why,  yes,  of  course." 

"Which  god  do  you  favor  at  present — Unitarian  or 
Catholic  or  Christian  Science  or  Seventh-Day  Advent?" 

"Why,  it's  the  same—" 

"Now  don't  spring  that  'it's  the  same  God'  stuff  on  me. 
It  isn't  the  same  God  that  simply  hones  for  candles  and 
music  in  an  Episcopal  Church  and  gives  the  Plymouth 
Brotherhood  a  private  copyright  revelation  that  organs 

and  candles  are  wicked." 

[721 


THE    JOB 

"You're  terribly  sacrilegious." 

"You  don't  believe  any  such  thing.  Or  else  you'd 
lam  me — same  as  they  used  to  do  in  the  crusades.  You 
don't  really  care  a  hang." 

"No,  I  really  don't  care!"  she  was  amazed  to  hear  her 
self  admit. 

"Of  course,  I'm  terribly  crude  and  vulgar,  but  then 
what  else  can  you  be  in  dealing  with  a  bunch  of  churches 
that  haven't  half  the  size  or  beauty  of  farmers'  red  barns? 
And  yet  the  dubs  go  on  asserting  that  they  believe  the 
church  is  God's  house.  If  I  were  God,  I'd  sure  object 
to  being  worse  housed  than  the  cattle.  But,  gosh!  let's 
pass  that  up.  If  I  started  in  on  what  I  think  of  almost 
anything — churches  or  schools,  or  this  lying  advertising 
game — I'd  yelp  all  night,  and  you  could  always  answer 
me  that  I'm  merely  a  neurotic  failure,  while  the  big  guns 
that  I  jump  on  own  motor-cars."  He  stopped  his  rapid 
tirade,  chucked  a  lump  of  sugar  at  an  interrogative  cat 
which  was  making  the  round  of  the  tables,  scowled,  and 
suddenly  fired  at  her: 

"What  do  you  think  of  me?" 

"You're  the  kindest  person  I  ever  met." 

"Huh?    Kind?    Good  to  my  mother?" 

"Perhaps.  You've  made  the  office  happy  for  me.  I 
really  admire  you.  ...  I  s'pose  I'm  terribly  unladylike  to 
tell  you." 

"Gee  whiz!"  he  marveled.  "Got  an  admirer!  And  I 
always  thought  you  were  an  uncommonly  level-headed 
girl.  Shows  how  you  can  fool  'em." 

He  smiled  at  her,  directly,  rather  forlornly,  proud  of 
her  praise. 

Regardless  of  other  tables,  he  thrust  his  arm  across,  and 
with  the  side  of  his  hand  touched  the  side  of  hers  for  a 

second.     Dejectedly  he  said:  "But  why  do  you  like  me? 

6  [73] 


THE    JOB 

I've  good  intentions;  I'm  willing  to  pinch  Tolstoi's 
laurels  right  off  his  grave,  and  orate  like  William  Jennings 
Bryan.  And  there's  a  million  yearners  like  me.  There 
ain't  a  hall-bedroom  boy  in  New  York  that  wouldn't 
like  to  be  a  genius." 

"I  like  you  because  you  have  fire.  Mr.  Babson,  do 
you—" 

"Walter!" 

"How  premature  you  are!" 

"Walter!" 

"You'll  be  calling  me  'Una'  next,  and  think  how 
shocked  the  girls  will  be." 

"Oh  no.  I've  quite  decided  to  call  you  *Goldie.' 
Sounds  nice  and  sentimental.  But  for  heaven's  sake  go 
on  telling  me  why  you  like  me.  That  isn't  a  hackneyed 
subject." 

"Oh,  I've  never  known  anybody  with /re,  except  maybe 
S.  Herbert  Ross,  and  he— he— " 

"He  blobs  around." 

"Yes,  something  like  that.  I  don't  know  whether  you 
are  ever  going  to  do  anything  with  your  fire,  but  you  do 
have  it,  Mr.  Babson!" 

"I'll  probably  get  fired  with  it.  ...  Say,  do  you  read 
Omar?" 

In  nothing  do  the  inarticulate  "million  hall-room  boys 
who  want  to  be  geniuses,"  the  ordinary,  unshaved,  not 
over-bathed,  ungrammatical  young  men  of  any  American 
city,  so  nearly  transcend  provincialism  as  in  an  enthusiasm 
over  their  favorite  minor  cynic,  Elbert  Hubbard  or  John 
Keiidrick  Bangs,  or,  in  Walter  Babson's  case,  Mr.  Fitz 
gerald's  variations  on  Omar.  Una  had  read  Omar  as  a 
pretty  poem  about  roses  and  murmurous  courts,  but 
read  him  she  had;  and  such  was  Walter's  delight  in  that 
fact  that  he  immediately  endowed  her  with  his  own  ability 

[74] 


THE   JOB 

to  enjoy  cynicism.  He  jabbed  at  the  menu  with  a  fork 
and  glowed  and  shouted,  "Say,  isn't  it  great,  that  qua 
train  about  'Take  the  cash  and  let  the  credit  go'?" 

While  Una  beamed  and  enjoyed  her  boy's  youthful  en 
thusiasm.  Mother  of  the  race,  ancient  tribal  woman, 
medieval  chatelaine,  she  was  just  now;  kin  to  all  the 
women  who,  in  any  age,  have  clapped  their  hands  to  their 
men's  boasting. 

She  agreed  with  him  that  "AH  these  guys  that  pride 
themselves  on  being  gentlemen — like  in  English  novels — 
are  jus'  the  same  as  the  dubs  you  see  in  ordinary  life." 

And  that  it  was  not  too  severe  an  indictment  to  refer 
to  the  advertising-manager  as  "S.  Herbert  Louse." 

And  that  "the  woman  feeding  by  herself  over  at  that 
corner  table  looks  mysterious,  somehow.  Gee!  there  must 
be  a  tragedy  in  her  life." 

But  her  gratification  in  being  admitted  to  his  enthusi 
asms  was  only  a  background  for  her  flare  when  he  boldly 
caught  up  her  white  paw  and  muttered,  "  Tired  little  hand 
that  has  to  work  so  hard!" 

She  couldn't  move;  she  was  afraid  to  look  at  him. 
Clattering  restaurant  and  smell  of  roast  pork  and  people 
about  her  all  dissolved  in  her  agitation.  She  shook  her 
head  violently  to  awaken  herself,  heard  herself  say, 
calmly,  "It's  terribly  late.  Don't  you  think  it  is?"  and 
knew  that  she  was  arising.  But  she  moved  beside  him 
down  the  street  in  languor,  wondering  in  every  cell  of  her 
etherealized  body  whether  he  would  touch  her  hand  again; 
what  he  would  do.  Not  till  they  neared  the  Subway  sta 
tion  did  she,  woman,  the  protector,  noting  his  slow  step 
and  dragging  voice,  rouse  herself  to  say,  "  Oh,  don't  come 
up  in  the  Subway;  I'm  used  to  it,  really!" 

"My  dear  Goldie,  you  aren't  used  to  anything  in  real 

life.   Gee!  I  said  that  snappily,  and  it  don't  mean  a  thing !" 

[75] 


THE   JOB 

he  gleefully  pointed  out.  He  seized  her  arm,  which 
prickled  to  the  touch  of  his  fingers,  rushed  her  down  the 
Subway  steps,  and  while  he  bought  their  tickets  they 
smiled  at  each  other. 

Several  times  on  the  way  up  he  told  her  that  it  was  a 
pleasure  to  have  some  one  who  could  "appreciate  his 
honest-t'-God  opinions  of  the  managing  editor  and  S. 
Herbert  Frost." 

The  Subway,  plunging  through  unvaried  darkness,  levi- 
ated  them  from  the  district  of  dark  loft-buildings  and 
theater-bound  taxicabs  to  a  far-out  Broadway,  softened 
with  trees  and  brightened  with  small  apartment-houses 
and  little  shops.  They  could  see  a  great  feathery  space 
of  vernal  darkness  down  over  the  Hudson  at  the  end  of  a 
street.  Steel-bound  nature  seemed  reaching  for  them 
wherever  in  a  vacant  lot  she  could  get  free  and  send  out 
quickening  odors  of  fresh  garden  soil. 

"Almost  country,"  said  Walter. 

An  urgent,  daring  look  came  into  his  eyes,  under  the 
light-cluster.  He  stopped,  took  her  arm.  There  was  an 
edge  of  spring  madness  in  his  voice  as  he  demanded, 
"Wouldn't  you  like  to  run  away  with  me  to-night?  Feel 
this  breeze  on  your  lips — it's  simply  plumb-full  of  mys 
tery.  Wouldn't  you  like  to  run  away?  and  we'd  tramp  the 
Palisades  till  dawn  and  go  to  sleep  with  the  May  sun 
glaring  down  the  Hudson.  Wouldn't  you  like  to,  wouldn't 
you?" 

She  was  conscious  that,  though  his  head  was  passion 
ately  thrown  back,  his  faunlike  eyes  stared  into  hers, 
and  that  his  thin  lips  arched.  Terribly  she  wanted  to  say, 
"Yes!"  Actually,  Una  Golden  of  Panama  and  the  Gazette 
office  speculated,  for  a  tenth  of  a  second,  whether  she 
couldn't  go.  Madness — river-flow  and  darkness  and  the 
stars !  But  she  said, "  No,  I'm  afraid  we  couldn't  possibly !" 

[76] 


THE   JOB 

"No,"  he  said,  slowly.  "Of  course — of  course  I  didn't 
mean  we  could;  but — Goldie,  little  Goldie  that  wants 
to  live  and  rule  things,  wouldn't  you  like  to  go? 
Wouldn't  you?" 

"Yes!  .  .  .  You  hurt  my  arm  so!  ...  Oh,  don't!  We 
must—" 

Her  low  cry  was  an  appeal  to  him  to  save  them  from 
spring's  scornful,  lusty  demand;  every  throbbing  nerve  in 
her  seemed  to  appeal  to  him;  and  it  was  not  relief,  but 
gratitude,  that  she  felt  when  he  said,  tenderly,  "Poor  kid! 
.  .  .  Which  way?  Come."  They  walked  soberly  toward 
the  Golden  flat,  and  soberly  he  mused,  "Poor  kids,  both 
of  us  trying  to  be  good  slaves  in  an  office  when  we  want 
to  smash  things.  .  .  .  You'll  be  a  queen — you'll  grab  the 
throne  same  as  you  grab  papers  offn  my  desk.  And 
maybe  you'll  let  me  be  court  jester." 

"Why  do  you  say  I'll — oh,  be  a  queen?  Do  you  mean 
literally,  in  business,  an  executive?" 

"Hadn't  thought  just  what  it  did  imply,  but  I  suppose 
it's  that." 

"But  why,  why?  I'm  simply  one  of  a  million  stenog 
raphers." 

"Oh,  well,  you  aren't  satisfied  to  take  things  just  as 
they're  handed  to  you.  Most  people  are,  and  they  stick 
in  a  rut  and  wonder  who  put  them  there.  All  this  success 
business  is  a  mystery — listen  to  how  successful  men  trip 
themselves  up  and  fall  all  over  their  foolish  faces  when 
they  try  to  explain  to  a  bunch  of  nice,  clean,  young  clerks 
how  they  stole  their  success.  But  I  know  you'll  get  it, 
because  you  aren't  satisfied  easily — you  take  my  work  and 
do  it.  And  yet  you're  willing  to  work  in  one  corner  till 
it's  time  to  jump.  That's  my  failing — I  ain't  willing  to 
stick." 

"I— perhaps Here's  the  flat." 

[77] 


THE   JOB 

"Lord!"  he  cried;  "we  got  to  walk  a  block  farther  and 
back." 

"Well—" 

They  were  stealing  onward  toward  the  breeze  from  the 
river  before  she  had  finished  her  "Well." 

"Think  of  wasting  this  hypnotizing  evening  talking  of 
success — word  that  means  a  big  house  in  Yonkers !  When 
we've  become  friends,  Goldie,  little  Goldie.  Business  of 
souls  grabbing  for  each  other!  Friends — at  least  to-night! 
Haven't  we,  dear?  haven't  we?" 

"Oh,  I  hope  so!"  she  whispered. 

He  drew  her  hand  into  his  pocket  and  clasped  it  there. 
She  looked  shyly  down.  Strange  that  her  hand  should 
not  be  visible  when  she  could  feel  its  palm  flame  against 
his.  She  let  it  snuggle  there,  secure.  .  .  .  Mr.  Walter 
Babson  was  not  a  young  man  with  "bad  prospects,"  or 
"good  prospects";  he  was  love  incarnate  in  magic  warm 
flesh,  and  his  hand  was  the  hand  of  love.  She  was  con 
scious  of  his  hard-starched  cuff  pressing  against  her  bare 
arm — a  man's  cuff  under  the  rough  surface  of  his  man's 
coat-sleeve. 

He  brought  her  back  to  the  vestibule  of  the  flat.  For 
a  moment  he  held  both  her  arms  at  the  elbow  and  looked 
at  her,  while  with  a  panic  fear  she  wondered  why  she  could 
not  move — wondered  if  he  were  going  to  kiss  her. 

He  withdrew  his  hands,  sighed,  "Good-night,  Goldie. 
I  won't  be  lonely  to-night !"  and  turned  abruptly  away. 

Through  all  of  Mrs.  Golden's  long,  sobbing  queries  as 
to  why  Una  had  left  her  alone  all  evening  Una  was  patient. 
For  she  knew  that  she  had  ahead  of  her  a  quiet  moment 
when  she  would  stand  alone  with  the  god  of  love  and  pray 
to  him  to  keep  her  boy,  her  mad  boy,  Walter. 

While  she  heard  her  voice  crisply  explaining,  "Why, 
you  see,  mother  dear,  I  simply  had  to  get  some  work  done 

[78] 


THE   JOB 

for  the  office — "  Una  was  telling  herself,  "Some  day  he 
will  kiss  me,  and  I'm  not  sorry  he  didn't  to-night — not 
now  any  more  I'm  not.  .  .  .  It's  so  strange — I  like  to  have 
him  touch  me,  and  I  simply  never  could  stand  other  men 
touching  me!  ...  I  wonder  if  he's  excited  now,  too?  I 
wonder  what  he's  doing.  .  .  .  Oh,  I'm  glad,  glad  I  loved 
his  hands!" 


CHAPTER  VI 

"  T  NEVER  thought  a  nice  girl  could  be  in  love  with  a 
;  •«•  man  who  is  bad,  and  I  s'pose  Walter  is  bad.  Kind  of. 
But  maybe  he'll  become  good." 

So  Una  simple-heartedly  reflected  on  her  way  to  the 
Subway  next  morning.  She  could  not  picture  what  he 
would  do,  now  that  it  was  hard,  dry  day  again,  and  all 
the  world  panted  through  dusty  streets.  And  she  reck 
lessly  didn't  care.  For  Walter  was  not  hard  and  dry  and 
dusty;  and  she  was  going  to  see  him  again!  Sometimes 
she  was  timorous  about  seeing  him,  because  he  had  read 
the  longing  in  her  face,  had  known  her  soul  with  its  gar 
ments  thrown  away.  But,  timorous  or  not,  she  had  to 
see  him;  she  would  never  let  him  go,  now  that  he  had  made 
her  care  for  him. 

Walter  was  not  in  sight  when  she  entered  the  offices, 
and  she  was  instantly  swept  into  the  routine.  Not 
clasping  hands  beguiled  her,  but  lists  to  copy,  typing 
errors  to  erase,  and  the  irritating  adjustment  of  a  shift- 
key  which  fiendishly  kept  falling.  For  two  hours  she 
did  not  see  him. 

About  ten-thirty  she  was  aware  that  he  was  prosaically 
strolling  toward  her. 

Hundreds  of  times,  in  secret  maiden  speculations  about 
love,  the  girl  Una  had  surmised  that  it  would  be  embar 
rassing  to  meet  a  man  the  morning  after  you  had  yielded 
to  his  caress.  It  had  been  perplexing — one  of  those  myste- 

[80] 


THE   JOB 

ries  of  love  over  which  virgins  brood  between  chapters  of 
novels,  of  which  they  diffidently  whisper  to  other  girls 
when  young  married  friends  are  amazingly  going  to  have 
a  baby.  But  she  found  it  natural  to  smile  up  at  Walter. . . . 
In  this  varnished,  daytime  office  neither  of  them  admitted 
their  madness  of  meeting  hands. 

He  merely  stooped  over  her  desk  and  said,  sketchily, 
"Mornin',  little  Goldie." 

Then  for  hours  he  seemed  to  avoid  her.  She  was  afraicL  I 
Most  of  all,  afraid  of  her  own  desire  to  go  to  him  and/ 
wail  that  he  was  avoiding  her. 

At  three  o'clock,  when  the  office  tribe  accept  with  naive 
gratitude  any  excuse  to  talk,  to  stop  and  tell  one  another 
a  new  joke,  to  rush  to  the  window  and  critically  view  a 
parade,  Una  saw  that  Walter  was  beginning  to  hover 
near  her.  She  was  angry  that  he  did  not  come  straight 
to  her.  He  did  not  seem  quite  to  know  whether  he  wanted 
her  or  not.  But  her  face  was  calm  above  her  typing  while 
she  watched  him  peer  at  her  over  the  shoulder  of  S.  Her 
bert  Ross,  to  whom  he  was  talking.  He  drew  nearer  to 
her.  He  examined  a  poster.  She  was  oblivious  of  him. 
She  was  conscious  that  he  was  trying  to  find  an  excuse 
to  say  something  without  openly  admitting  to  the  ever- 
spying  row  of  stenographers  that  he  was  interested  in  her. 
He  wambled  up  to  her  at  last  and  asked  for  a  letter  she 
had  filed  for  him.  She  knew  from  the  casual-looking 
drop  of  his  eyes  that  he  was  peering  at  the  triangle  of  her 
clear-skinned  throat,  and  for  his  peeping  uneasiness  she 
rather  despised  him.  She  could  fancy  herself  shouting  at 
him, "  Oh,  stop  fidgeting !  Make  up  your  mind  whether  you 
like  me  or  not,  and  hurry  up  about  it.  I  don't  care  now." 

In  which  secret  defiance  she  was  able  to  luxuriate — since 
he  was  still  in  the  office,  not  gone  from  her  forever! — 
till  five  o'clock,  when  the  detached  young  men  of  offices 

[81] 


THE    JOB 

are  wont  to  face  another  evening  of  lonely  irrelevancy, 
and  desperately  begin  to  reach  for  companionship. 

At  that  hour  Walter  rushed  up  and  begged,  "Goldie, 
you  must  come  out  with  me  this  evening." 

"I'm  sorry,  but  it's  so  late — " 

"  Oh,  I  know.  Gee !  if  you  knew  how  I've  been  thinking 
about  you  all  day!  I've  been  wondering  if  I  ought  to — 
I'm  no  good;  blooming  waster,  I  told  myself;  and  I  won 
dered  if  I  had  any  right  to  try  to  make  you  care;  but — 
Oh,  you  must  come,  Goldie!" 

Una's  pride  steeled  her.  A  woman  can  forgive  any 
vice  of  man  more  readily  than  she  can  forgive  his  not 
loving  her  so  unhesitatingly  that  he  will  demand  her 
without  stopping  to  think  of  his  vices.  Refusal  to  sac 
rifice  the  beloved  is  not  a  virtue  in  youth. 

Una  said,  clearly, "  I  am  sorry,  but  I  can't  possibly  this 
evening." 

"Well — wish  you  could,"  he  sighed. 

As  he  moved  away  Una  reveled  in  having  refused  his 
half-hearted  invitation,  but  already  she  was  aware  that 
she  would  regret  it.  She  was  shaken  with  woman's 
fiercely  possessive  clinging  to  love. 

The  light  on  <*he  side  of  her  desk  was  shut  off  by  the 
bulky  presence  of  Miss  Moynihan.  She  whispered,  husk 
ily,  "Say,  Miss  Golden,  you  want  to  watch  out  for  that 
Babson  fellow.  He  acts  like  he  was  stuck  on  you.  Say, 
listen;  everybody  says  he's  a  bad  one.  Say,  listen,  hon 
est;  they  say  he'd  compromise  a  lady  jus'  soon  as  not." 

"Why,  I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

"Oh  no,  like  fun  you  don't — him  rubbering  at  you  all 
day  and  pussy-footing  around!" 

"Why,  you're  perfectly  crazy!  He  was  merely  asking 
me  about  some  papers — " 

"Oh  yes,  sure!    Lemme  tell  you,  a  lady  can't  be  none 

[82] 


THE    JOB 

too  careful  about  her  reputation  with  one  of  them  skinny, 
dark  devils  like  a  Dago  snooping  around." 

"Why,  you're  absolutely  ridiculous!  Besides,  how  do 
you  know  Mr.  Babson  is  bad?  Has  he  ever  hurt  anybody 
in  the  office?" 

"No,  but  they  say—" 

"< They  say'!" 

"Now  don't  you  go  and  get  peeved  after  you  and  me 
been  such  good  friends,  Miss  Golden.  I  don't  know  that 
this  Babson  fellow  ever  done  anything  worse  than  eat 
cracker-jack  at  South  Beach,  but  I  was  just  telling  you 
what  they  all  say — how  he  drinks  and  goes  with  a  lot  of 
totties  and  all;  but — but  he's  all  right  if  you  say  so,  and — 
honest  t'  Gawd,  Miss  Golden,  listen,  honest,  I  wouldn't 
knock  him  for  nothing  if  I  thought  he  was  your  fellow! 
And,"  in  admiration,  "and  him  an  editor!  Gee!" 

Una  tried  to  see  herself  as  a  princess  forgiving  her 
honest  servitor.  But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  she  was  plain 
angry  that  her  romance  should  be  dragged  into  the  nasti- 
ness  of  office  gossip.  She  resented  being  a  stenographer, 
one  who  couldn't  withdraw  into  a  place  for  dreams.  And 
she  fierily  defended  Walter  in  her  mind;  throbbed  with 
a  big,  sweet  pity  for  her  nervous,  aspiring  boy  whose  quest 
for  splendor  made  him  seem  wild  to  the  fools  about  them. 

When,  just  at  five-thirty,  Walter  charged  up  to  her 
again,  she  met  him  with  a  smile  of  unrestrained  intimacy. 

"If  you're  going  to  be  home  at  all  this  evening,  let  me 
come  up  just  for  fifteen  minutes!"  he  demanded. 

"Yes!"  she  said,  breathlessly.  "Oh,  I  oughtn't  to,  but 
— come  up  at  nine." 

§2 

Una  had  always  mechanically  liked  children;  had  ejacu 
lated,  "Oh,  the  pink  little  darling!"  over  each  neighbor- 

[83] 


THE   JOB 

hood  infant;  had  pictured  children  of  her  own;  but  never 
till  that  night  had  the  desire  to  feel  her  own  baby's  head 
against  her  breast  been  a  passion.  After  dinner  she  sat 
on  the  stoop  of  her  apartment-house,  watching  the  chil 
dren  at  play  between  motors  on  the  street. 

"Oh,  it  would  be  wonderful  to  have  a  baby — a  boy 
like  Walter  must  have  been — to  nurse  and  pet  and  cry 
over!"  she  declared,  as  she  watched  a  baby  of  faint,  brown 
ringlets — hair  that  would  be  black  like  Walter's.  Later 
she  chided  herself  for  being  so  bold,  so  un-Panamanian; 
but  she  was  proud  to  know  that  she  could  long  for  the 
pressure  of  a  baby's  lips.  The  brick-walled  street  echoed 
with  jagged  cries  of  children;  tired  women  in  mussed 
waists  poked  their  red,  steamy  necks  out  of  windows ;  the  sky 
was  a  blur  of  gray;  and,  lest  she  forget  the  job,  Una's  left 
wrist  ached  from  typing;  yet  she  heard  the  rustle  of  spring* 
and  her  spirit  swelled  with  thankfulness  as  she  felt  her  life 
to  be  not  a  haphazard  series  of  days,  but  a  divine  progress. 

Walter  was  coming — to-night! 

She  was  conscious  of  her  mother,  up-stairs.  From  her 
place  of  meditation  she  had  to  crawl  up  the  many  steps 
to  the  flat  and  answer  at  least  twenty  questions  as  to  what 
she  had  been  doing.  Of  Walter's  coming  she  could  say 
nothing;  she  could  not  admit  her  interest  in  a  man  she 
did  not  know. 

At  a  quarter  to  nine  she  ventured  to  say,  ever  so  casu 
ally:  "I  feel  sort  of  headachy.  I  think  I'll  run  down  and 
sit  on  the  steps  again  and  get  a  little  fresh  air." 

"Let's  have  a  little  walk.  I'd  like  some  fresh  air,  too," 
said  Mrs.  Golden,  brightly. 

"Why — oh — to  tell  the  truth,  I  wanted  to  think  over 
some  office  business." 

"Oh,  of  course,  my  dear,  if  I  am  in  the  way — !"  Mrs. 
Golden  sighed,  and  trailed  pitifully  off  into  the  bedroom. 

[841 


THE    JOB 

Una  followed  her,  and  wanted  to  comfort  her.  But 
she  could  say  nothing,  because  she  was  palpitating  over 
Walter's  coming.  The  fifteen  minutes  of  his  stay  might 
hold  any  splendor. 

She  could  not  change  her  clothes.  Her  mother  was  in 
the  bedroom,  sobbing. 

All  the  way  down  the  four  flights  of  stairs  she  wanted 
to  flee  back  to  her  mother.  It  was  with  a  cold  impatience 
that  she  finally  saw  Walter  approach  the  house,  ten  min 
utes  late.  He  was  so  grotesque  in  his  frantic,  puffing 
hurry.  He  was  no  longer  the  brilliant  Mr.  Babson,  but 
a  moist  young  man  who  hemmed  and  sputtered,  "  Gee ! — 
couldn't  find  clean  collar — hustled  m'  head  off — just  missed 
Subway  express — couldn't  make  it — whew,  I'm  hot!" 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  she  condescended. 

He  dropped  on  the  step  just  below  her  and  mopped  his 
forehead.  Neither  of  them  could  say  anything.  He  took 
off  his  horn-rimmed  eye-glasses,  carefully  inserted  the 
point  of  a  pencil  through  the  loop,  swung  them  in  a  buzz 
ing  circle,  and  started  to  put  them  on  again. 

"Oh,  keep  them  of  I"  she  snapped.  "You  look  so  high 
brow  with  them!" 

"Y-yuh;    why,  s-sure!" 

She  felt  very  superior. 

He  feverishly  ran  a  finger  along  the  upper  rim  of  his 
left  ear,  sprang  up,  stooped  to  take  her  hand,  glared  into 
her  eyes  till  she  shrank — and  then  a  nail-cleaner,  a  com 
mon,  ten-cent  file,  fell  out  of  his  inner  pocket  and  clinked 
on  the  stone  step. 

"Oh,  damn!"  he  groaned. 

"  I  really  think  it  is  going  to  rain,"  she  said. 

They  both  laughed. 

He  plumped  down  beside  her,  uncomfortably  wedged 
between  her  and  the  rail.  He  caught  her  hand,  inter- 

[85] 


THE    JOB 

twined  their  fingers  so  savagely  that  her  knuckles  hurt. 
"Look  here,"  he  commanded,  "you  don't  really  think  it's 
going  to  rain  any  such  a  darn  thing!  I've  come  fourteen 
billion  hot  miles  up  here  for  just  fifteen  minutes — yes, 
and  you  wanted  to  see  me  yourself,  too!  And  now  you 
want  to  talk  about  the  history  of  recent  rains." 

In  the  bitter-sweet  spell  of  his  clasp  she  was  oblivious 
of  street,  children,  sky.  She  tried  to  withdraw  her  hand, 
but  he  squeezed  her  fingers  the  more  closely  and  their 
two  hands  dropped  on  her  thin  knee,  which  tingled  to  the' 
impact. 

"But — but  what  did  you  want  to  see  me  about?"  Her 
superiority  was  burnt  away. 

He  answered  her  hesitation  with  a  trembling  demand: 
"I  can't  talk  to  you  here!  Can't  we  go  some  place-~| 
Come  walk  toward  the  river." 

"Oh,  I  daren't — really,  Walter.  My  mother  feels  so— ~ 
so  fidgety  to-night  and  I  must  go  back  to  her.  .  .  .  By  and 
by." 

"But  would  you  like  to  go  with  me?" 

"Yes!" 

"Then  that's  all  that  matters!" 

"Perhaps — perhaps  we  could  go  up  on  the  roof  here 
for  just  a  few  minutes.  Then  I  must  send  you  home." 

"Hooray!     Come  on." 

He  boldly  lifted  her  to  her  feet,  followed  her  up  the 
stairs.  On  the  last  dark  flight,  near  the  roof,  he  threw 
both  arms  about  her  and  kissed  her.  She  was  amazed 
that  she  did  not  want  to  kiss  him  back,  that  his  abandon 
did  not  stir  her.  Even  while  she  was  shocked  and  afraid, 
he  kissed  again,  and  she  gave  way  to  his  kiss;  her  cold 
mouth  grew  desirous. 

She  broke  away,  with  shocked  pride — shocked  most  of 
all  at  herself,  that  she  let  him  kiss  her  thus. 

[86] 


THE    JOB 

"You  quiver  so  to  my  kiss!"  he  whispered,  in  awe. 
"  I  don't !"  she  denied.  "  It  just  doesn't  mean  anything." 
"It  does,  and  you  know  it  does.     I  had  to  kiss  you. 
Oh,  sweetheart,  sweetheart,  we  are  both  so  lonely!    Kiss 


me." 


"No,  no!"   She  held  him  away  from  her. 

"Yes,  I  tell  you!" 

She  encircled  his  neck  with  her  arm,  laid  her  cheek 
beside  his  chin,  rejoiced  boundlessly  in  the  man  roughness 
of  his  chin,  of  his  coat-sleeve,  the  man  scent  of  him — scent 
of  tobacco  and  soap  and  hair.  She  opened  her  lips  to 
his.  Slowly  she  drew  her  arm  from  about  his  neck,  his 
arm  from  about  her  waist. 

"Walter!"  she  mourned,  "I  did  want  you.  But  you 
must  be  good  to  me — not  kiss  me  like  that — not  now, 
anyway,  when  I'm  lonely  for  you  and  can't  resist  you.  . .  . 
Oh,  it  wasn't  wrong,  was  it,  when  we  needed  each  other 
so?  It  wasn't  wrong,  was  it?" 

"Oh  no— no!" 

"But  not — not  again — not  for  a  long  while.  I  want  you 
to  respect  me.  Maybe  it  wasn't  wrong,  dear,  but  it  was 
terribly  dangerous.  Come,  let's  stand  out  in  the  cool 
air  on  the  roof  for  a  while  and  then  you  must  go  home." 

They  came  out  on  the  flat,  graveled  roof,  round  which 
all  the  glory  of  the  city  was  blazing,  and  hand  in  hand,  in 
a  confidence  delicately  happy  now,  stood  worshiping 
the  spring. 

"  Dear,"  he  said,  "  I  feel  as  though  I  were  a  robber  who 
had  gone  crashing  right  through  the  hedge  around  your 
soul,  and  then  after  that  come  out  in  a  garden — the  sweet 
est,  coolest  garden.  ...  I  will  try  to  be  good  to  you — and 
for  you."  He  kissed  her  finger-tips. 

"Yes,  you  did  break  through.  At  first  it  was  just  a 
kiss  and  the — oh,  it  was  the  kiss,  and  there  wasn't  any- 

[87] 


THE   JOB 

thing  else.  Oh,  do  let  me  live  in  the  _  little  ~  garden 
still." 

"Trust  me,  dear." 

"I  will  trust  you.    Come.    I  must  go  down  now." 

"Can  I  come  to  see  you?" 

"Yes." 

"Goldie,  listen,"  he  said,  as  they  came  down-stairs  to 
her  hallway.  "Any  time  you'd  like  to  marry  me — I  don't 
advise  it,  I  guess  I'd  have  good  intentions,  but  be  a  darn 
poor  hand  at  putting  up  shelves — but  any  time  you'd 
like  to  marry  me,  or  any  of  those  nice  conventional  things, 
just  lemme  know,  will  you?  Not  that  it  matters  much. 
What  matters  is,  I  want  to  kiss  you  good-night." 

"No,  what  matters  is,  I'm  not  going  to  let  you! .  .  .Not 
to-night.  .  .  .  Good-night,  dear." 

She  scampered  down  the  hall.  She  tiptoed  into  the 
living-room,  and  for  an  hour  she  brooded,  felt  faint  and 
ashamed  at  her  bold  response  to  his  kiss,  yet  wanted  to 
feel  his  sharp-ridged  lips  again.  Sometimes  in  a  bitter 
frankness  she  told  herself  that  Walter  had  never  even 
thought  of  marriage  till  their  kiss  had  fired  him.  She  swore 
to  herself  that  she  would  not  give  all  her  heart  to  love; 
that  she  would  hold  him  off  and  make  him  value  her  pre 
cious  little  store  of  purity  and  tenderness.  But  passion 
and  worry  together  were  lost  in  a  prayer  for  him.  She 
knelt  by  the  window  till  her  own  individuality  was  merged 
with  that  of  the  city's  million  lovers. 

§3 

Like  sickness  and  war,  the  office  grind  absorbs  all  per 
sonal  desires.  Love  and  ambition  and  wisdom  it  turns  to 
its  own  purposes.  Every  day  Una  and  Walter  saw  each 
other.  Their  hands  touched  as  he  gave  her  papers  to 

[88] 


THE    JOB 

file;  there  was  affection  in  his  voice  when  he  dictated,  and 
once,  outside  the  office  door,  he  kissed  her.  Yet  their  love 
was  kept  suspended.  They  could  not  tease  each  other 
and  flirt  raucously,  like  the  telephone-girl  and  the  elevator- 
starter. 

Every  day  he  begged  her  to  go  to  dinner  with  him,  to  let 
him  call  at  the  flat,  and  after  a  week  she  permitted  him 
to  come. 

§4 

At  dinner,  when  Una  told  her  mother  that  a  young 
gentleman  at  the  office — in  fact,  Mr.  Babson,  the  editor 
whose  dictation  she  took — was  going  to  call  that  evening, 
Mrs.  Golden  looked  pleased,  and  said:  "Isn't  that 
nice!  Why,  you  never  told  mother  he  was  interested  in 
you!" 

"Well,  of  course,  we  kind  of  work  together— 

"I  do  hope  he's  a  nice,  respectful  young  man,  not  one 
of  these  city  people  that  flirt  and  drink  cocktails  and 
heaven  knows  what  all!" 

"  Why,  uh — I'm  sure  you'll  like  him.  Everybody  says 
he's  the  cleverest  fellow  in  the  shop." 

"Office,  dear,  not  shop.  ...  Is  he—  Does  he  get  a  big 
salary?" 

"Why,  mums,  I'm  sure  I  haven't  the  slightest  idea! 
How  should  I  know?" 

"Well,  I  just  asked. . . .  Will  you  put  on  your  pink-and- 
white  crepe?" 

"Don't  you  think  the  brown  silk  would  be  better?" 

"Why,  Una,  I  want  you  to  look  your  prettiest!  You 
must  make  all  the  impression  you  can." 

"Well,  perhaps  I'd  better,"  Una  said,  demurely. 

Despite  her  provincial  training,  Mrs.  Golden  had  a 
much  better  instinct  for  dress  than  her  sturdy  daughter. 

7  [89] 


THE    JOB 

So  long  as  she  was  not  left  at  home  alone,  her  mild  sel 
fishness  did  not  make  her  want  to  interfere  with  Una's 
interests.  She  ah'd  and  oh'd  over  the  torn  border  of 
Una's  crepe  dress,  and  mended  it  with  quick,  pussy-like 
movements  of  her  fingers.  She  tried  to  arrange  Una's 
hair  so  that  its  pale  golden  texture  would  shine  in  broad, 
loose  undulations,  and  she  was  as  excited  as  Una  when  they 
heard  Walter's  bouncing  steps  in  the  hall,  his  nervous 
tap  at  the  door,  his  fumbling  for  a  push-button. 

Una  dashed  wildly  to  the  bedroom  for  a  last  nose- 
powdering,  a  last  glance  at  her  hair  and  nails,  and  slowly 
paraded  to  the  door  to  let  him  in,  while  Mrs.  Golden 
stood  primly,  with  folded  hands,  like  a  cabinet  photograph 
of  1885. 

So  the  irregular  Walter  came  into  a  decidedly  regular 
atmosphere  and  had  to  act  like  a  pure-minded  young 
editor. 

They  conversed — Lord!  how  they  conversed!  Mrs. 
Golden  respectably  desired  to  know  Mr.  Babson's  opinions 
on  the  weather,  New-Yorkers,  her  little  girl  Una's  work, 
fashionable  city  ministers,  the  practical  value  of  motor 
cars,  and  the  dietetic  value  of  beans — the  large,  white 
beans,  not  the  small,  brown  ones — she  had  grown  both 
varieties  in  her  garden  at  home  (Panama,  Pennsylvania, 
when  Mr.  Golden,  Captain  Golden  he  was  usually  called, 
was  alive) — and  had  Mr.  Babson  ever  had  a  garden, 
or  seen  Panama?  And  was  Una  really  attending  to  her 
duties? 

All  the  while  Mrs.  Golden's  canary  trilled  approval  of 
the  conversation. 

Una  listened,  numbed,  while  Walter  kept  doing  absurd 
things  with  his  face — pinched  his  lips  and  tapped  his 
teeth  and  rubbed  his  jaw  as  though  he  needed  a  shave. 

He  took  off  his  eye-glasses  to  wipe  them  and  tied  his 

[90] 


THE    JOB 

thin  legs  in  a  knot,  and  all  the  while  said,  "Yes,  there's 
certainly  a  great  deal  to  that." 

At  a  quarter  to  ten  Mrs.  Golden  rose,  indulged  in  a  little 
kitten  yawn  behind  her  silvery  hand,  and  said:  "Well,  I 
think  I  must  be  off  to  bed.  ...  I  find  these  May  days  so 
languid.  Don't  you,  Mr.  Babson?  Spring  fever.  I  just 
can't  seem  to  get  enough  sleep.  .  .  .  Now  you  mustn't 
stay  up  too  late,  Una  dear." 

The  bedroom  door  had  not  closed  before  Walter  had 
darted  from  his  chair,  picked  Una  up,  his  hands  pressing 
tight  about  her  knees  and  shoulders,  kissed  her,  and  set 
her  down  beside  him  on  the  couch. 

"  Wasn't  I  good,  huh?  Wasn't  I  good,  huh?  Wasn't  I? 
Now  who  says  Wally  Babson  ain't  a  good  parlor-pup,  huh? 
Oh,  you  old  darling,  you  were  twice  as  agonized  as  me!" 

And  that  was  all  he  said — in  words.  Between  them  was 
a  secret,  a  greater  feeling  of  unfettered  intimacy,  because 
together  they  had  been  polite  to  mother — tragic,  pitiful 
mother,  who  had  been  enjoying  herself  so  much  without 
knowing  that  she  was  in  the  way.  That  intimacy  needed 
no  words  to  express  it;  hands  and  cheeks  and  lips  spoke 
more  truly.  They  were  children  of  emotion,  young  and  j 
crude  and  ignorant,  groping  for  life  and  love,  all  the  world  y 
new  to  them,  despite  their  sorrows  and  waiting.  They 
were  clerklings,  not  lords  of  love  and  life,  but  all  the  more 
easily  did  they  yield  to  longing  for  happiness.  Between 
them  was  the  battle  of  desire  and  timidity — and  not  all 
the  desire  was  his,  not  hers  ail  the  timidity.  She  fancied 
sometimes  that  he  was  as  much  afraid  as  was  she  of  de 
basing  their  shy  seeking  into  unveiled  passion.  Yet  his  y 
was  the  initiative ;  always  she  panted  and  wondered  what 
he  would  do  next,  feared  and  wondered  and  rebuked — 
and  desired. 

He  abruptly  drew  her  head  to  his  shoulder,  smoothed 

[91] 


THE    JOB 

her  hair.  She  felt  his  fingers  again  communicate  to  her 
every  nerve  a  tingling  electric  force.  She  felt  his  lips 
quest  along  her  cheek  and  discover  the  soft  little  spot 
just  behind  her  ear.  She  followed  the  restless  course  of 
his  hands  across  her  shoulders,  down  her  arm,  lingeringly 
over  her  hand.  His  hand  seemed  to  her  to  have  an  exist 
ence  quite  apart  from  him,  to  have  a  mysterious  existence 
of  its  own.  In  silence  they  rested  there.  She  kept  won 
dering  if  his  shoulder  had  not  been  made  just  for  her 
cheek.  With  little  shivers  she  realized  that  this  was  his 
shoulder,  Walter's,  a  man's,  as  the  rough  cloth  prickled 
her  skin.  Silent  they  were,  and  for  a  time  secure,  but  she 
kept  speculating  as  to  what  he  would  dare  to  do  next — 
and  she  fancied  that  he  was  speculating  about  precisely 
the  same  thing. 

He  drew  a  catching  breath,  and  suddenly  her  lips  were 
opening  to  his. 

"Oh,  you  mustn't — you  promised—  '  she  moaned, 
when  she  was  able  to  draw  back  her  head. 

Again  he  kissed  her,  quickly,  then  released  her  and 
began  to  talk  rapidly  of — nothing.  Apropos  of  offices  and 
theaters  arid  the  tides  of  spring,  he  was  really  telling  her 
that,  powerful  though  his  restless  curiosity  was,  greatly 
though  their  poor  little  city  bodies  craved  each  other, 
yet  he  did  respect  her.  She  scarce  listened,  for  at  first 
she  was  bemused  by  two  thoughts.  She  was  inquiring 
sorrowfully  whether  it  was  only  her  body  that  stirred 
him—whether  he  found  any  spark  in  her  honest  little 
mind.  And,  for  her  second  thought,  she  was  considering 
in  an  injured  way  that  this  was  not  love  as  she  had  read 
of  it  in  novels.  "I  didn't  know  just  what  it  would  be — 
but  I  didn't  think  it  would  be  like  this,"  she  declared. 

Love,  as  depicted  in  such  American  novels  by  literary 
pastors  and  matrons  of  jxrfect  purity  as  had  sifted  into 

192] 


THE   JOB 

the  Panama  public  library,  was  an  affair  of  astounding 
rescues  from  extreme  peril,  of  highly  proper  walks  in 
lanes,  of  laudable  industry  on  the  part  of  the  hero,  and 
of  not  more  than  three  kisses — one  on  the  brow,  one  on 
the  cheek,  and,  in  the  very  last  paragraph  of  the  book, 
one  daringly  but  reverently  deposited  upon  the  lips.  These 
young  heroes  and  heroines  never  thought  about  bodies 
at  all,  except  when  they  had  been  deceived  in  a  field  of 
asterisks.  So  to  Una  there  was  the  world-old  shock  at 
the  earthiness  of  love — and  the  penetrating  joy  of  that 
earthiness.  If  real  love  was  so  much  more  vulgar  than  she 
had  supposed,  yet  also  it  was  so  much  more  overwhelm 
ing  that  she  was  glad  to  be  a  flesh-and-blood  lover, 
bruised  and  bewildered  and  estranged  from  herself,  in 
stead  of  a  polite  munnurer. 

Gradually  she  was  drawn  back  into  a  real  communion 
with  him  when  he  damned  the  human  race  for  serfs 
fighting  in  a  dungeon,  warring  for  land,  for  flags,  for 
titles,  and  calling  themselves  kings.  Walter  took  the  same 
theories  of  socialism,  single-tax,  unionism,  which  J.  J. 
Todd,  of  Chatham,  had  hacked  out  in  commercial-college 
days,  and  he  made  them  bleed  and  yawp  and  be  hotly 
human.  For  the  first  time — Walter  was  giving  her  so 
many  of  those  First  Times  of  life! — Una  realized  how 
strong  is  the  demand  of  the  undermen  for  a  conscious 
and  scientific  justice.  She  denied  that  stenographers 
could  ever  form  a  union,  but  she  could  not  answer  his 
acerb,  "Why  not?" 

It  was  not  in  the  patiently  marching  Una  to  be  a  crea 
tive  thinker,  yet  she  did  hunger  for  self-mastery,  and 
ardently  was  she  following  the  erratic  gibes  at  civilization 
with  which  young  Walter  showed  his  delight  in  having  ( 
an   audience,   when   the   brown,  homely  Golden  family 

clock  struck  eleven. 

[93] 


THE   JOB 

"Heavens!"  she  cried.  "You  must  run  home  at  once. 
Good-night,  dear." 

He  rose  obediently,  nor  did  their  lips  demand  each 
other  again. 

Her  mother  awoke  to  yawn.  "He  is  a  very  polite 
young  man,  but  I  don't  think  he  is  solid  enough  for  you, 
dearie.  If  he  comes  again,  do  remind  me  to  show  him 
the  kodaks  of  your  father,  like  I  promised." 

Then  Una  began  to  ponder  the  problem  which  is  so 
weighty  to  girls  of  the  city — where  she  could  see  her  lover, 
since  the  parks  were  impolite  and  her  own  home  obtru 
sively  dull  to  him. 

Whether  Walter  was  a  peril  or  not,  whether  or  not  his 
love  was  angry  and  red  and  full  of  hurts,  yet  she  knew 
that  it  was  more  to  her  than  her  mother  or  her  conven 
tions  or  her  ambitious  little  job.  Thus  gladly  confessing, 
she  fell  asleep,  and  a  new  office  day  began,  for  always  the 
office  claims  one  again  the  moment  that  the  evening's 
freedom  is  over. 


CHAPTER  VII 

children  of  the  city,  where  there  is  no  place 
-»•  for  love-making,  for  discovering  and  testing  each 
other's  hidden  beings,  ran  off  together  in  the  scanted 
parties  of  the  ambitious  poor.  Walter  was  extravagant 
financially  as  he  was  mentally,  but  he  had  many  debts, 
some  conscience,  and  a  smallness  of  salary.  She  was 
pleased  by  the  smallest  diversions,  however,  and  found 
luxury  in  a  bowl  of  chop-suey.  He  took  her  to  an  Italian 
restaurant  and  pointed  out  supposititious  artists.  They 
had  gallery  seats  for  a  Maude  Adams  play,  at  which  she 
cried  and  laughed  whole-heartedly  and  held  his  hand  all 
through.  Her  first  real  tea  was  with  him — in  Panama 
one  spoke  of  "ladies'  afternoon  tea,"  not  of  "tea."  She 
was  awed  by  his  new  walking-stick  and  the  new  knowl 
edge  of  cinnamon  toast  which  he  displayed  for  her. 
She  admired,  too,  the  bored  way  he  swung  his  stick  as 
they  sauntered  into  and  out  of  the  lobbies  of  the  great 
hotels. 

The  first  flowers  from  a  real  florist's  which  she  had 
ever  received,  except  for  a  bunch  of  carnations  from 
Henry  Carson  at  Panama  high-school  commencement, 
came  from  Walter — long-stemmed  roses  in  damp  paper 
and  a  florist's  box,  with  Walter's  card  inside. 

And  perhaps  the  first  time  that  she  had  ever  really 
seen  spring,  felt  the  intense  light  of  sky  and  cloud  and  fresh 
greenery  as  her  own,  was  on  a  Sunday  just  before  the 

[95] 


THE    JOB 

fragrant  first  of  June,  when  Walter  and  she  slipped  away 
from  her  mother  and  walked  in  Central  Park,  shabby  but 
unconscious. 

She  explored  with  him,  too;  felt  adventurous  in  quite 
respectable  Japanese  and  Greek  and  Syrian  restaurants. 

But  her  mother  waited  for  her  at  home,  and  the  job, 
the  office,  the  desk,  demanded  all  her  energy. 

Had  they  seen  each  other  less  frequently,  perhaps 
Walter  would  have  let  dreams  serve  for  real  kisses,  and 
have  been  satisfied.  But  he  saw  her  a  hundred  times  a 
day — and  yet  their  love  progressed  so  little.  The  pro 
pinquity  of  the  office  tantalized  them.  And  Mrs.  Golden 
kept  them  apart. 


The  woman  who  had  aspired  and  been  idle  while  Cap 
tain  Golden  had  toiled  for  her,  who  had  mourned  and  been 
idle  while  Una  had  planned  for  her,  and  who  had  always 
been  a  compound  of  selfishness  and  love,  was  more  and 
more  accustomed  to  taking  her  daughter's  youth  to  feed 
her  comfort  and  her  canary — a  bird  of  atrophied  voice  and 
uncleanly  habit. 

If  this  were  the  history  of  the  people  who  wait  at  home, 
instead  of  the  history  of  the  warriors,  rich  credit  would 
be  given  to  Mrs.  Golden  for  enduring  the  long,  lonely 
days,  listening  for  Una's  step.  A  proud,  patient  woman 
with  nothing  to  do  all  day  but  pick  at  a  little  housework, 
and  read  her  eyes  out,  and  wish  that  she  could  run  in 
and  be  neighborly  with  the  indifferent  urbanites  who 
formed  about  her  a  wall  of  ice.  Yet  so  confused  are 
human  purposes  that  this  good  woman  who  adored  her 
daughter  also  sapped  her  daughter's  vigor.  As  the  office 
loomed  behind  all  of  Una's  desires,  so  behind  the  office, 
in  turn,  was  ever  the  shadowy  thought  of  the  appealing 

[96] 


THE   JOB 

figure  there  at  home;  and  toward  her  mother  Una  was 
very  compassionate. 

Yes,  and  so  was  her  mother! 

Mrs.  Golden  liked  to  sit  soft  and  read  stories  of  young 
love.  Partly  by  nature  and  partly  because  she  had 
learned  that  thus  she  could  best  obtain  her  wishes,  she 
was  gentle  as  a  well-filled  cat  and  delicate  as  a  tulle  scarf. 
She  was  admiringly  adhesive  to  Una  as  she  had  been  to 
Captain  Golden,  and  she  managed  the  new  master  of  the 
house  just  as  she  had  managed  the  former  one.  She 
listened  to  dictates  pleasantly,  was  perfectly  charmed  at 
suggestions  that  she  do  anything,  and  then  gracefully 
forgot. 

Mrs.  Golden  was  a  mistress  of  graceful  forgetting.  Al 
most  never  did  she  remember  to  do  anything  she  didn't 
want  to  do.  She  did  not  lie  about  it;  she  really  and  quite 
beautifully  did  forget. 

Una,  hurrying  off  to  the  office  every  morning,  agonized 
with  the  effort  to  be  on  time,  always  had  to  stop  and 
prepare  a  written  list  of  the  things  her  mother  was 
to  do.  Otherwise,  bespelled  by  the  magazine  stories 
which  she  kept  forgetting  and  innocently  rereading, 
Mrs.  Golden  would  forget  the  marketing,  forget  to 
put  the  potatoes  on  to  boil,  forget  to  scrub  the  bath 
room.  .  .  .  And  she  often  contrived  to  lose  the  written 
list,  and  searched  for  it,  with  trembling  lips  but  no  vast 
persistence. 

Una,  bringing  home  the  palsying  weariness  of  the 
day's  drudgery,  would  find  a  cheery  welcome  —  and 
the  work  not  done;  no  vegetables  for  dinner,  no  fresh 
boric-acid  solution  prepared  for  washing  her  stinging 
eyes. 

Nor  could  Una  herself  get  the  work  immediately  out 
of  the  way,  because  her  mother  was  sure  to  be  lonely,  to 

[97] 


THE    JOB 

need  comforting  before  Una  could  devote  herself  to  any 
thing  else  or  even  wash  away  the  sticky  office  grime.  .  .  . 
Mrs.  Golden  would  have  been  shocked  into  a  stroke  could 
she  have  known  that  while  Una  was  greeting  her,  she  was 
muttering  within  herself,  "I  do  wish  I  could  brush  my 
teeth  first!" 

If  Una  was  distraught,  desirous  of  disappearing  in 
order  to  get  hold  of  herself,  Mrs.  Golden  would  sigh, 
"Dear,  have  I  done  something  to  make  you  angry?"  In 
any  case,  whether  Una  was  silent  or  vexed  with  her,  the 
mother  would  manage  to  be  hurt  but  brave;  sweetly  dis 
tressed,  but  never  quite  tearful.  And  Una  would  have  to 
kiss  her,  pat  her  hair,  before  she  could  escape  and  begin 
to  get  dinner  (with  her  mother  helping,  always  ready  to 
do  anything  that  Una's  doggedly  tired  mind  might  suggest, 
but  never  suggesting  novelties  herself). 

After  dinner,  Mrs.  Golden  was  always  ready  to  do  what 
ever  Una  wished — to  play  cribbage,  or  read  aloud,  or  go 
for  a  walk — not  a  long  walk;  she  was  so  delicate,  you 
know,  but  a  nice  little  walk  with  her  dear,  dear  daughter. 
.  .  .  For  such  amusements  she  was  ready  to  give  up  all  her 
own  favorite  evening  diversions — namely,  play  ing  solitaire, 
and  reading  and  taking  nice  little  walks.  .  .  .  But  she  did 
not  like  to  have  Una  go  out  and  leave  her,  nor  have 
naughty,  naughty  men  like  Walter  take  Una  to  the  theater, 
as  though  they  wanted  to  steal  the  dear  daughter  away. 
And  she  wore  Una's  few  good  frocks,  and  forgot  to  freshen 
them  in  time  for  Una  to  wear  them.  Otherwise,  Mrs. 
Golden  had  the  unselfishness  of  a  saint  on  a  marble 
pillar. 

Una,  it  is  true,  sometimes  voiced  her  irritation  over  her 
mother's  forgetfulness  and  her  subsequent  pathos,  but 
for  that  bitterness  she  always  blamed  herself,  with  horror 
remembered  each  cutting  word  she  had  said  to  the  Little 

[98] 


THE    JOB 

Mother  Saint  (as,  in  still  hours  when  they  sat  clasped  like 
lovers,  she  tremblingly  called  her). 


§3 

Mrs.  Golden's  demand  of  Una  for  herself  had  neve*f*7 
been  obvious  till  it  clashed  with  Walter's  demand.          ^J. 

Una  and  Walter  talked  it  over,  but  they  seemed  mutely 
to  agree,  after  the  evening  of  Mrs.  Golden  and  conversa 
tion,  that  it  was  merely  balking  for  him  to  call  at  the  flat. 
Nor  did  Una  and  Mrs.  Golden  discuss  why  Mr.  Babson 
did  not  come  again,  or  whether  Una  was  seeing  him.  Una 
was  accustomed  to  say  only  that  she  would  be  "away  this 
evening,"  but  over  the  teapot  she  quoted  Walter's  opin 
ions  on  Omar,  agnosticism,  motor  magazines,  pipe- 
smoking,  Staten  Island,  and  the  Himalayas,  and  it  was  evi 
dent  that  she  was  often  with  him. 

Mrs.  Golden's  method  of  opposition  was  very  simple. 
Whenever  Una  announced  that  she  was  going  out,  her 
mother's  bright,  birdlike  eyes  filmed  over;  she  sighed  and 
hesitated,  "Shall  I  be  alone  all  evening — after  all  day, 
too?"  Una  felt  like  a  brute.  She  tried  to  get  her  mother 
to  go  to  the  Sessionses'  flat  more  often,  to  make  new 
friends,  but  Mrs,  Golden  had  lost  all  her  adaptability. 
She  clung  to  Una  and  to  her  old  furniture  as  the  only 
recognizable  parts  of  her  world.  Often  Una  felt  forced 
to  refuse  Walter's  invitations;  always  she  refused  to  walk 
with  him  on  the  long,  splendid  Saturday  afternoons  of 
freedom.  Nor  would  she  let  him  come  and  sit  on  the  roof 
with  her,  lest  her  mother  see  them  in  the  hall  and  be  hurt. 

So  it  came  to  pass  that  only  in  public  did  she  meet 
Walter.  He  showed  his  resentment  by  inviting  her  out 
less  and  less,  by  telling  her  less  and  less  frankly  his  am 
bitions  and  his  daily  dabs  at  becoming  a  great  man. 

[99] 


THE    JOB 

Apparently  he  was  rather  interested  in  a  flour-faced  actress 
at  his  boarding-house. 

Never,  now,  did  he  speak  of  marriage.  The  one  time 
when  he  had  spoken  of  it,  Una  had  been  so  sure  of  their 
happiness  that  she  had  thought  no  more  of  that  formality 
than  had  his  reckless  self.  But  now  she  yearned  to  have 
him  "propose,"  in  the  most  stupid,  conventional,  pink- 
romance  fashion.  "Why  can't  we  be  married?"  she  fancied 
herself  saying  to  him,  but  she  never  dared  say  it  aloud. 

Often  he  was  abstracted  when  he  was  with  her,  in  the 
office  or  out.  Always  he  was  kindly,  but  the  kindliness 
seemed  artificial.  She  could  not  read  his  thoughts,  now 
that  she  had  no  hand-clasp  to  guide  her. 

On  a  hot,  quivering  afternoon  of  early  July,  Walter 
came  to  her  desk  at  closing-hour  and  said,  abruptly: 
"Look.  You've  simply  got  to  come  out  with  me  this 
evening.  We'll  dine  at  a  little  place  at  the  foot  of  the 
Palisades.  I  can't  stand  seeing  you  so  little.  I  won't 
ask  you  again!  You  aren't  fair." 

"Oh,  I  don't  mean  to  be  unfair — " 

"  Will  you  come?     Will  you?" 

His  voice  glared.  Regardless  of  the  office  folk  about 
them,  he  put  his  hand  over  hers.  She  was  sure  that  Miss 
Moynihan  was  bulkily  watching  them.  She  dared  not 
take  time  to  think. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  will  go." 

§4 

It  was  a  beer-garden  frequented  by  yachtless  German 
yachtsmen  in  shirt-sleeves,  boating-caps,  and  mustaches 
like  muffs,  but  to  Una  it  was  Europe  and  the  banks  of  the 
Rhine,  that  restaurant  below  the  Palisades  where  she 
dined  with  Walter. 

[100] 


THE    JOE 

A  placid  hour  it  was,  as  dusk  grew  deepe?-  and  more 
fragrant,  and  they  leaned  over  the  terrace  rail  to  meditate 
on  the  lights  springing  out  like  laughing  jests  incarnate — 
reflected  lights  of  steamers  paddling  with  singing  excur 
sionists  up  the  Hudson  to  the  storied  hills  of  Rip  Van 
Winkle;  imperial  sweeps  of  fire  that  outlined  the  mighty 
city  across  the  river. 

Walter  was  at  peace.  He  spared  her  his  swart  intensity; 
he  shyly  quoted  Tennyson,  and  bounced  with  cynicisms 
about  "Sherbert  Souse"  and  "the  Gas-bag."  He  brought 
happiness  to  her,  instead  of  the  agitation  of  his  kisses. 

She  was  not  an  office  machine  now,  but  one  with  the 
village  lovers  of  poetry,  as  her  job-exhaustion  found  relief 
in  the  magic  of  the  hour,  in  the  ancient  music  of  the  river, 
in  breezes  which  brought  old  tales  down  from  the  Cats- 
kills. 

She  would  have  been  content  to  sit  there  for  hours, 
listening  to  the  twilight,  absently  pleating  the  coarse 
table-cloth,  trying  to  sip  the  saline  claret  which  he  insisted 
on  their  drinking.  She  wanted  nothing  more.  . . .  And  she 
had  so  manceuvered  their  chairs  that  the  left  side  of  her 
face,  the  better  side,  was  toward  him! 

But  Walter  grew  restless.  He  stared  at  the  German 
yachtsmen,  at  their  children  who  ate  lumps  of  sugar 
dipped  in  claret,  and  their  wives  who  drank  beer.  He 
commented  needlessly  on  a  cat  which  prowled  along  the 
terrace  rail.  He  touched  Una's  foot  with  his,  and  suddenly 
condemned  himself  for  not  having  been  able  to  bring  her 
to  a  better  restaurant.  He  volubly  pointed  out  that  their 
roast  chicken  had  been  petrified — "vile  restaurant,  very 
vile  food." 

"Why,  I  love  it  here!"  she  protested.  "I'm  perfectly 
happy  to  be  just  like  this." 

As  she  turned  to  him  with  a  smile  that  told  all  her 
[101] 


THE    JOB 

tenderness,  she?  noted  how  his  eyes  kept  stealing  from  the 
riverside  to  her,  and  back  again,  how  his  hands  trembled 
as  he  clapped  two  thick  glass  salt-shakers  together.  A 
current  of  uneasiness  darted  between  them. 

He  sprang  up.  "Oh,  I  can't  sit  still!"  he  said.  "Come 
on.  Let's  walk  down  along  the  river." 

"Oh,  can't  we  just  sit  here  and  be  quiet?"  she  pleaded, 
but  he  rubbed  his  chin  and  shook  his  head  and  sputtered : 
"  Oh,  rats,  you  can't  see  the  river,  now  that  they've  turned 
on  the  electric  lights  here.  Come  on.  Besides,  it  '11  be 
cooler  right  by  the  river." 

She  felt  a  menace;  the  darkness  beyond  them  was  no 
longer  dreaming,  but  terror-filled.  She  wanted  to  refuse, 
but  he  was  so  fretfully  demanding  that  she  could  only 
obey  him. 

Up  on  the  crest  of  the  Palisades  is  an  "amusement 
park,"  and  suburbs  and  crowded  paths;  and  across  the 
river  is  New  York,  in  a  solid  mass  of  apartment-houses; 
but  between  Palisades  and  river,  at  the  foot  of  the  cliffs, 
is  an  unfrequented  path  which  still  keeps  some  of  the  wild- 
ness  it  had  when  it  was  a  war-path  of  the  Indians.  It 
climbs  ridges,  twists  among  rocks,  dips  into  damp  hollows, 
widens  out  into  tiny  bowling-greens  for  Hendrik  Hudson's 
fairy  men.  By  night  it  is  ghostly,  and  beside  it  the  river 
whispers  strange  tragedies. 

Along  this  path  the  city  children  crept,  unspeaking, 
save  when  his  two  hands,  clasping  her  waist  to  guide  her 
down  a  rocky  descent,  were  clamorous. 

Where  a  bare  sand  jetty  ran  from  the  path  out  into  the 
river's  broad  current,  Walter  stopped  and  whispered,  "I 
wish  we  could  go  swimming." 

"I  wish  we  could — it's  quite  warm,"  she  said,  prosaic 
ally. 

But  river  and  dark  woods  and  breeze  overhead  seemed 
[102] 


THE   JOB 

to  whisper  to  her — whisper,  whisper,  all  the  shrouded 
night  aquiver  with  low,  eager  whispers.  She  shivered 
to  find  herself  imagining  the  unimaginable — that  she 
might  throw  off  her  stodgy  office  clothes,  her  dull  cloth 
skirt  and  neat  blouse,  and  go  swimming  beside  him,  revel 
in  giving  herself  up  to  the  utter  frankness  of  cool  water 
laving  her  bare  flesh. 

She  closed  her  mind.  She  did  not  condemn  herself  for 
wanting  to  bathe  as  Mother  Eve  had  bathed,  naked  and 
unafraid.  She  did  not  condemn  herself — but  neither  did 
she  excuse.  She  was  simply  afraid.  She  dared  not  try 
to  make  new  standards;  she  took  refuge  in  the  old  stand 
ards  of  the  good  little  Una.  Though  all  about  her  called 
the  enticing  voices  of  night  and  the  river,  yet  she  list 
ened  for  the  tried  counsel  voices  of  the  plain  Panama 
streets  and  the  busy  office. 

While  she  struggled,  Walter  stood  with  his  arm  fitted 
about  her  shoulder,  letting  the  pregnant  silence  speak, 
till  again  he  insisted:  "Why  couldn't  we  go  swimming?" 
Then,  with  all  the  cruelly  urgent  lovers  of  the  days  of 
hungry  poetry :  "  We're  going  to  let  youth  go  by  and  never 
dare  to  be  mad.  Time  will  get  us — we'll  be  old — it  will 
be  too  late  to  enjoy  being  mad."  His  lyric  cry  dropped  to 
a  small-boy  excuse:  "Besides,  it  wouldn't  hurt.  .  .  .  Come 
on.  Think  of  plunging  in." 

"No,  no,  no,  no!"  she  cried,  and  ran  from  him  up  the 
jetty,  back  to  the  path.  . .  .  She  was  not  afraid  of  him,  be 
cause  she  was  so  much  more  afraid  of  herself. 

He  followed  sullenly  as  the  path  led  them  farther  and 
farther.  She  stopped  on  a  rise,  and  found  herself  able 
to  say,  calmly,  "Don't  you  think  we'd  better  go  back 
now?" 

"Maybe  we  ought  to.    But  sit  down  here." 

He  hunched  up  his  knees,  rested  his  elbows  on  them, 

[103] 


THE    JOB 

and  said,  abstractedly,  apparently  talking  to  himself  as 
much  as  to  her: 

"I'm  sorry  I've  been  so  grouchy  coming  down  the  path. 
But  I  don't  apologize  for  wanting  us  to  go  swimming. 
Civilization,  the  world's  office-manager,  tells  us  to  work 
like  fiends  all  day  and  be  lonely  and  respectable  all  eve- 
ting,  and  not  even  marry  till  we're  thirty,  because  we  can't 
afford  to!  That's  all  right  for  them  as  likes  to  become 
nice  varnished  desks,  but  not  for  me !  I'm  going  to  hunger 
and  thirst  and  satisfy  my  appetites — even  if  it  makes  me 
'selfish  as  the  devil.  I'd  rather  be  that  than  be  a  bran- 
stuffed  automaton  that's  never  human  enough  to  hunger. 
But  of  course  you're  naturally  a  Puritan  and  always  will 
be  one,  no  matter  what  you  do.  You're  a  good  sort — 
I'd  trust  you  to  the  limit — you're  sincere  and  you  want 
to  grow.  But  me — my  Wanderjahr  isn't  over  yet.  Maybe 
some  time  we'll  again —  I  admire  you,  but — if  I  weren't  a 
little  mad  I'd  go  literally  mad.  .  .  .  Mad — mad!" 

He  suddenly  undid  the  first  button  of  her  blouse  and 
kissed  her  neck  harshly,  while  she  watched  him,  in  a 
maze.  He  abruptly  fastened  the  button  again,  sprang 
up,  stared  out  at  the  wraith-filled  darkness  over  the 
river,  while  his  voice  droned  on,  as  though  it  were  a 
third  person  speaking: 

"I  suppose  there's  a  million  cases  a  year  in  New  York 
of  crazy  young  chaps  making  violent  love  to  decent  girls 
and  withdrawing  because  they  have  some  hidden  decency 
themselves.  I'm  ashamed  that  I'm  one  of  them — me, 
I'm  as  bad  as  a  nice  little  Y.  M.  C.  A.  boy — I  bow  to  con 
ventions,  too.  Lordy!  the  fact  that  I'm  so  old-fashioned 
as  even  to  talk  about  'conventions'  in  this  age  of  Shaw 
and  d'Annunzio  shows  that  I'm  still  a  small-town,  district- 
school  radical!  I'm  really  as  mid- Victorian  as  you  are, 
in  knowledge.  Only  I'm  modern  by  instinct,  and  the 

[104] 


THE    JOB 

combination  will  always  keep  me  half-baked,  I  suppose. 
I  don't  know  what  I  want  from  life,  and  if  I  did  I  wouldn't 
know  how  to  get  it.  I'm  a  Middle  Western  farmer,  and 
yet  I  regard  myself  about  half  the  time  as  an  Oxford  man 
with  a  training  in  Paris.  You're  lucky,  girl.  You  have 
a  definite  ambition — either  to  be  married  and  have  babies 
or  to  boss  an  office.  Whatever  I  did,  I'd  spoil  you — at 
least  I  would  till  I  found  myself — found  out  what  I  wanted. 
.  .  .  Lord!  how  I  hope  I  do  find  myself  some  day!" 

"Poor  boy!"  she  suddenly  interrupted;  "it's  all  right. 
Come,  we'll  go  home  and  try  to  be  good." 

"Wonderful!  There  speaks  the  American  woman,  per 
fectly.  You  think  I'm  just  chattering.  You  can't  under 
stand  that  I  was  never  so  desperately  in  earnest  in  my 
life.  Well,  to  come  down  to  cases.  Specification  A — I 
couldn't  marry  you,  because  we  haven't  either  of  us  got 
any  money — aside  from  my  not  having  found  myself  yet. 
Ditto  B — We  can't  play,  just  because  you  are  a  Puritan 
and  I'm  a  typical  intellectual  climber.  Same  C — I've 
actually  been  offered  a  decent  job  in  the  advertising  de 
partment  of  a  motor-car  company  in  Omaha,  and  now 
I  think  I'll  take  it." 

And  that  was  all  that  he  really  had  to  say,  just  that 
last  sentence,  though  for  more  than  an  hour  they  discussed 
themselves  and  their  uncharted  world,  Walter  trying  to 
be  honest,  yet  to  leave  with  her  a  better  impression  of 
himself;  Una  trying  to  keep  him  with  her.  It  was  hard  for 
her  to  understand  that  Walter  really  meant  all  he  said. 

But,  like  him,  she  was  frank. 

There  are  times  in  any  perplexed  love  when  the  lovers 
revel  in  bringing  out  just  those  problems  and  demands 
and  complaints  which  they  have  most  carefully  concealed. 
At  such  a  time  of  mutual  confession,  if  the  lovers  are 
honest  and  tender,  there  is  none  of  the  abrasive  hostility 

8  [105] 


THE    JOB 

of  a  vulgar  quarrel.  But  the  kindliness  of  the  review  need 
not  imply  that  it  is  profitable;  often  it  ends,  as  it  began, 
with  the  wail,  "What  can  we  do?"  But  so  much  alike 
are  all  the  tribe  of  lovers,  that  the  debaters  never  fail  to 
stop  now  and  then  to  congratulate  themselves  on  being 
so  frank! 

Thus  Una  and  Walter,  after  a  careful  survey  of  the 
facts  that  he  was  too  restless,  that  she  was  too  Panaman 
ian  and  too  much  mothered,  after  much  argument  as  to 
what  he  had  meant  when  he  had  said  this,  and  what  she 
had  thought  he  meant  when  he  had  said  that,  and  whether 
he  could  ever  have  been  so  inconsiderate  as  to  have  said 
the  other,  and  frequent  admiration  of  themselves  for 
their  open-mindedness,  the  questing  lovers  were  of  the 
same  purpose  as  at  the  beginning  of  their  inquiry.  He 
still  felt  the  urge  to  take  up  his  pilgrimage  again,  to  let 
the  "decent  job"  and  Omaha  carry  him  another  stage  in 
his  search  for  the  shrouded  gods  of  his  nebulous  faith. 
And  she  still  begged  for  a  chance  to  love,  to  be  needed; 
still  declared  that  he  was  merely  running  away  from  him 
self. 

They  had  quite  talked  themselves  out  before  he  sighed: 
"I  don't  dare  to  look  and  see  what  time  it  is.  Come,  we'll 
have  to  go." 

They  swung  arms  together  shyly  as  they  stumbled  back 
over  the  path.  She  couldn't  believe  that  he  really  would 
go  off  to  the  West,  of  which  she  was  so  ignorant.  But  she 
felt  as  though  she  were  staggering  into  a  darkness  blinder 
and  ever  more  blind. 

\Vhen  she  got  home  she  found  her  mother  awake,  very 
angry  over  Una's  staying  out  till  after  midnight,  and  very 
wordy  about  the  fact  that  "that  nice,  clean  young  man," 
Mr.  J.  J.  Todd,  of  Chatham  and  of  the  commercial  college, 
had  come  to  call  that  evening.  Una  made  little  answer  to 

[106] 


THE   JOB 

her.    Through  her  still  and  sacred  agony  she  could  scarce 
hear  her  mother's  petulant  whining. 


§5 

Next  morning  at  the  office,  Walter  abruptly  asked  her 
to  come  out  into  the  hall,  told  her  that  he  was  leaving 
without  notice  that  afternoon.  He  could  never  bear  to 
delay,  once  he  had  started  out  on  the  "Long  Trail,"  he 
said,  not  looking  at  her.  He  hastily  kissed  her,  and  darted  *' 
back  into  the  office.  She  did  not  see  him  again  till,  at 
five-thirty,  he  gave  noisy  farewell  to  all  the  adoring  stenog 
raphers  and  office-boys,  and  ironical  congratulations  to 
his  disapproving  chiefs.  He  stopped  at  her  desk,  hesitated 
noticeably,  then  said,  "  Good-by,  Goldie,"  and  passed  on. 
She  stared,  hypnotized,  as,  for  the  last  time,  Walter  went 
bouncing  out  of  the  office. 


§6 

A  week  later  J.  J.  Todd  called  on  her  again.  He  was 
touching  in  his  description  of  his  faithful  labor  for  the 
Charity  Organization  Society.  But  she  felt  dead;  she 
could  not  get  herself  to  show  approval.  It  was  his  last 
call. 

§7 

Walter  wrote  to  her  on  the  train — £  jumbled  rhapsody 
on  missing  her  honest  companionship.  Then  a  lively 
description  of  his  new  chief  at  Omaha.  A  lonely  letter  on 
a  barren  evening,  saying  that  there  was  nothing  to  say. 
A  note  about  a  new  project  of  going  to  Alaska.  She  did 

not  hear  from  him  again. 

[107] 


THE    JOB 

§8 

For  weeks  she  missed  him  so  tragically  that  she  found 
herself  muttering  over  and  over,  "Now  I  sha'n't  ever  have 
a  baby  that  would  be  a  little  image  of  him." 

When  she  thought  of  the  shy  games  and  silly  love- words 
she  had  lavished,  she  was  ashamed,  and  wondered  if  they 
had  made  her  seem  a  fool  to  him. 

But  presently  in  the  week's  unchanging  routine  she 
found  an  untroubled  peace;  and  in  mastering  her  work 
she  had  more  comfort  than  ever  in  his  clamorous  sum 
mons. 

At  home  she  tried  not  merely  to  keep  her  mother  from 
being  lonely,  but  actually  to  make  her  happy,  to  coax  her 
to  break  into  the  formidable  city.  She  arranged  summer- 
evening  picnics  with  the  Sessionses. 

She  persuaded  them  to  hold  one  of  these  picnics  at  the 
foot  of  the  Palisades.  During  it  she  disappeared  for  nearly 
half  an  hour.  She  sat  alone  by  the  river.  Suddenly,  with 
a  feverish  wrench,  she  bared  her  breast,  then  shook  her 
head  angrily,  rearranged  her  blouse,  went  back  to  the 
group,  and  was  unusually  gay,  though  all  the  while  she 
kept  her  left  hand  on  her  breast,  as  though  it  pained  her. 

She  had  been  with  the  Gazette  for  only  a  little  over  six 
months,  and  she  was  granted  only  a  week's  vacation. 
This  she  spent  with  her  mother  at  Panama.  In  parties 
with  old  neighbors  she  found  sweetness,  and  on  a  motor- 
trip  with  Henry  Carson  and  his  fiancee,  a  young  widow,  > 
she  let  the  fleeting  sun-flecked  land  absorb  her  soul. 

At  the  office  Una  was  transferred  to  S.  Herbert  Ross's 
department,  upon  Walter's  leaving.  She  sometimes  took 
S.  Herbert's  majestic,  flowing  dictation.  She  tried  not 
merely  to  obey  his  instructions,  but  also  to  discover  his 

unvoiced  wishes.    Her  wage  was  raised  from  eight  dollars 

[1081 


THE    JOB 

a  week  to  ten.  She  again  determined  to  be  a  real  business 
woman.  She  read  a  small  manual  on  advertising. 

But  no  one  in  the  Gazette  office  believed  that  a  woman 
could  bear  responsibilities,  not  even  S.  Herbert  Ross, 
with  his  aphorisms  for  stenographers,  his  prose  poems 
about  the  ecstatic  joy  of  running  a  typewriter  nine  hours 
a  day,  which  appeared  in  large,  juicy-looking  type  in 
business  magazines. 

She  became  bored,  mechanical,  somewhat  hopeless. 
She  planned  to  find  a  better  job  and  resign.  In  which 
frame  of  mind  she  was  rather  contemptuous  of  the  Gazette 
office;  and  it  was  an  unforgetable  shock  suddenly  to  be 
discharged. 

Ross  called  her  in,  on  a  winter  afternoon,  told  her  that 
he  had  orders  from  the  owner  to  "reduce  the  force," 
because  of  a  "change  of  policy,"  and  that,  though  he  was 
sorry,  he  would  have  to  "let  her  go  because  she  Was  one 
of  the  most  recent  additions."  He  assured  her  royally 
that  he  had  been  pleased  by  her  work;  that  he  would  be 
glad  to  give  her  "  the  best  kind  of  a  recommend — and  if  the 
situation  loosens  up  again,  I'd  be  tickled  to  death  to  have 
you  drop  in  and  see  me.  Just  between  us,  I  think  the 
owner  will  regret  this  tight-wad  policy." 

But  Mr.  S.  Herbert  Ross  continued  to  go  out  to  lunch 
with  the  owner,  and  Una  went  through  all  the  agony  of 
not  being  wanted  even  in  the  prison  she  hated.  No  matter 
what  the  reason,  being  discharged  is  the  final  insult  in  an 
office,  and  it  made  her  timid  as  she  began  wildly  to  seek 
a  new  job. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

IN  novels  and  plays  architects  usually  are  delicate 
young  men  who  wear  silky  Vandyke  beards,  play  the 
piano,  and  do  a  good  deal  with  pictures  and  rugs.  They 
leap  with  desire  to  erect  charming  cottages  for  the  poor, 
and  to  win  prize  contests  for  the  Jackson  County  Court 
house.  They  always  have  good  taste;  they  are  perfectly 
mad  about  simplicity  and  gracefulness.  But  from  the 
number  of  flat-faced  houses  and  three-toned  wooden 
churches  still  being  erected,  it  may  be  deduced  that  some 
where  there  are  architects  who  are  not  enervated  by  too 
much  good  taste. 

Mr.  Troy  Wilkins,  architect,  with  an  office  in  the 
Septimus  Building,  was  a  commuter.  He  wore  a  derby 
and  a  clipped  mustache,  and  took  interest  in  cameras, 
player-pianos,  phonographs,  small  motor-cars,  speed 
ometers,  tires,  patent  nicotineless  pipes,  jolly  tobacco  for 
jimmy  -  pipes,  tennis  -  rackets,  correspondence  courses, 
safety-razors,  optimism,  Theodore  Roosevelt,  pocket 
flashlights,  rubber  heels,  and  all  other  well-advertised 
wares.  He  was  a  conservative  Republican  and  a  Con- 
gregationalist,  and  on  his  desk  he  kept  three  silver-framed 
photographs — one  of  his  wife  and  two  children,  one  of 
his  dog  Rover,  and  one  of  his  architectural  masterpiece, 
the  mansion  of  Peter  B.  Reardon,  the  copper  king  of 
Montana. 

Mr.  Troy  Wilkins  lamented  the  passing  of  the  solid 

[110] 


THE   JOB 

and  expensive  stone  residences  of  the  nineties,  but  he 
kept  "up  to  date,"  and  he  had  added  ideals  about  half- 
timbered  villas,  doorway  settles,  garages,  and  sleeping- 
porches  to  his  repertoire.  He  didn't,  however,  as  he  often 
said,  "believe  in  bungalows  any  more  than  he  believed 
in  these  labor  unions." 

§2 

Una  Golden  had  been  the  chief  of  Mr.  Troy  Wilkins's 
two  stenographers  for  seven  months  now — midsummer  of 
J967,  when  she  was  twenty-six.  She  had  climbed  to 
thirteen  dollars  a  week.  The  few  hundred  dollars  which 
she  had  received  from  Captain  Golden 's  insurance  were 
gone,  and  her  mother  and  she  had  to  make  a  science  of 
saving — economize  on  milk,  on  bread,  on  laundry,  on 
tooth-paste.  But  that  didn't  really  matter,  because  Una 
never  went  out  except  for  walks  and  moving-picture  shows, 
with  her  mother.  She  had  no  need,  no  want  of  clothes  to 
impress  suitors.  .  .  .  She  had  four  worn  letters  from  Walter 
Babson  which  she  re-read  every  week  or  two;  she  had  her 
mother  and,  always,  her  job. 


Una,  an  errand-boy,  and  a  young  East-Side  Jewish 
stenographer  named  Bessie  Kraker  made  up  the  office 
force  of  Troy  Wilkins.  The  office  was  on  the  eighth  floor 
of  the  Septimus  Building,  which  is  a  lean,  jerry-built, 
flashingly  pretentious  cement  structure  with  cracking 
walls  and  dirty,  tiled  hallways. 

The  smeary,  red-gold  paint  which  hides  the  imperfect 
ironwork  of  its  elevators  does  not  hide  the  fact  that  they 
groan  like  lost  souls,  and  tremble  and  jerk  and  threaten  to 
fall.  The  Septimus  Building  is  typical  of  at  least  one  half 

[ill] 


THE    JOB 

of  a  large  city.  It  was  "run  up"  by  a  speculative  builder 
for  a  "quick  turn-over."  It  is  semi-fire-proof,  but  more  semi 
than  fire-proof.  It  stands  on  Nassau  Street,  between  two 
portly  stone  buildings  that  try  to  squeeze  this  lanky  im 
postor  to  death,  but  there  is  more  cheerful  whistling  in  its 
hallways  than  in  the  halls  of  its  disapproving  neighbors. 
Near  it  is  City  Hall  Park  and  Newspaper  Row,  Wall 
Street  and  the  lordly  Stock  Exchange,  but,  aside  from  a 
few  dull  and  honest  tenants  like  Mr.  Troy  Wilkins,  the 
Septimus  Building  is  filled  with  offices  of  fly-by-night 
companies — shifty  promoters,  mining-concerns,  beauty- 
parlors  for  petty  brokers,  sample-shoe  shops,  discreet 
lawyers,  and  advertising  dentists.  Seven  desks  in  one 
large  room  make  up  the  entire  headquarters  of  eleven 
international  corporations,  which  possess,  as  capital, 
eleven  hundred  and  thirty  dollars,  much  embossed  sta 
tionery — and  the  seven  desks.  These  modest  capitalists 
do  not  lease  their  quarters  by  the  year.  They  are  doing 
very  well  if  they  pay  rent  for  each  of  four  successive 
months.  But  also  they  do  not  complain  about  repairs; 
they  are  not  fussy  about  demanding  a  certificate  of  moral 
perfection  from  the  janitor.  They  speak  cheerily  to  eleva 
tor-boys  and  slink  off  into  saloons.  Not  all  of  them  keep 
Yom  Kippur;  they  all  talk  of  being  "broad-minded." 

Mr.  Wilkins's  office  was  small  and  agitated.  It  con 
sisted  of  two  rooms  and  an  insignificant  entry-hall,  in 
which  last  was  a  water-cooler,  a  postal  scale,  a  pile  of  news 
papers,  and  a  morose  office-boy  who  drew  copies  of  Gibson 
girls  all  day  long  on  stray  pieces  of  wrapping-paper,  and 
confided  to  Una,  at  least  once  a  week,  that  he  wanted  to 
take  a  correspondence  course  in  window-dressing.  In 
one  of  the  two  rooms  Mr.  Wilkins  cautiously  made  draw 
ings  at  a  long  table,  or  looked  surprised  over  correspond 
ence  at  a  small  old-fashioned  desk,  or  puffed  and  scratched 

[112] 


THE    JOB 

as  he  planned  form-letters  to  save  his  steadily  waning 
business. 

In  the  other  room  there  were  the  correspondence-files, 
and  the  desks  of  Una,  the  chief  stenographer,  and  of 
slangy  East -Side  Bessie  Kraker,  who  conscientiously 
copied  form-letters,  including  all  errors  in  them,  and 
couldn't,  as  Wilkins  complainingly  pointed  out,  be  trusted 
with  dictation  which  included  any  words  more  difficult 
than  "sincerely." 

From  their  window  the  two  girls  could  see  the  windows 
of  an  office  across  the  street.  About  once  a  month  an  in 
teresting  curly-haired  youth  leaned  out  of  one  of  the  win 
dows  opposite.  Otherwise  there  was  no  view. 

§4 

Twelve  o'clock,  the  hour  at  which  most  of  the  offices 
closed  on  Saturday  in  summer,  was  excitedly  approaching. 
The  office- women  throughout  the  Septimus  Building,  who 
had  been  showing  off  their  holiday  frocks  all  morning, 
were  hastily  finishing  letters,  or  rushing  to  the  women's 
wash-rooms  to  discuss  with  one  another  the  hang  of  new 
skirts.  All  morning  Bessie  Kraker  had  kept  up  a  mono 
logue,  beginning,  "Say,  lis-ten,  Miss  Golden,  say,  gee!  I 
was  goin'  down  to  South  Beach  with  my  gentleman  friend 
this  afternoon,  and,  say,  what  d'  you  think  the  piker  had 
to  go  and  get  stuck  for?  He's  got  to  work  all  afternoon. 
I  don't  care— I  don't  care!  I'm  going  to  Coney  Island 
with  Sadie,  and  I  bet  you  we  pick  up  some  fellows  and  do 
the  light  fantastic  till  one  G.  M.  Oh,  you  sad  sea  waves! 
I  bet  Sadie  and  me  make  'em  sad!" 

"But  we'll  be  straight,"  said  Bessie,  half  an  hour  later, 
apropos  of  nothing.  "But  gee!  it's  fierce  to  not  have  any 
good  times  without  you  take  a  risk.  But  gee!  my  dad 

[113] 


THE    JOB 

would  kill  me  if  I  went  wrong.  He  reads  the  Talmud  all 
the  time,  and  hates  Goys.  But  gee!  I  can't  stand  it  all 
the  time  being  a  mollycoddle.  I  wisht  I  was  a  boy!  I'd 
be  a*  aviator." 

Bessie  had  a  proud  new  blouse  with  a  deep  V,  the  edges 
of  which  gaped  a  bit  and  suggested  that  by  ingenuity  one 
could  see  more  than  was  evident  at  first.  Troy  Wilkins, 
while  pretending  to  be  absent-mindedly  fussing  about  a 
correspondence-file  that  morning,  had  fogotten  that  he 
was  much  married  and  had  peered  at  the  V.  Una  knew 
it,  and  the  sordidness  of  that  curiosity  so  embarrassed 
her  that  she  stopped  typing  to  clutch  at  the  throat  of  her 
own  high-necked  blouse,  her  heart  throbbing.  She  wanted 
to  run  away.  She  had  a  vague  desire  to  "help"  Bessie, 
who  purred  at  poor,  good  Mr.  Wilkins  and  winked  at  Una 
and  chewed  gum  en  joy  ably,  who  was  brave  and  hardy 
and  perfectly  able  to  care  for  herself — an  organism  modi 
fied  by  the  Ghetto  to  the  life  which  still  bewildered  Una. 

Mr.  Wilkins  went  home  at  11.17,  after  giving  them 
enough  work  to  last  till  noon.  The  office-boy  chattily 
disappeared  two  minutes  later,  while  Bessie  went  two 
minutes  after  that.  Her  delay  was  due  to  the  adjustment 
of  her  huge  straw  hat,  piled  with  pink  roses  and  tufts  of 
blue  malines. 

Una  stayed  till  twelve.  Her  ambition  had  solidified 
into  an  unreasoning  conscientiousness. 

With  Bessie  gone,  the  office  was  so  quiet  that  she  hesi 
tated  to  typewrite  lest  They  sneak  up  on  her — They  who 
dwell  in  silent  offices  as  They  dwell  beneath  a  small  boy's 
bed  at  night.  The  hush  was  intimidating;  her  slightest 
movement  echoed;  she  stopped  the  sharply  tapping  ma 
chine  after  every  few  words  to  listen. 

At  twelve  she  put  on  her  hat  with  two  jabs  of  the  hat 
pins,  and  hastened  to  the  elevator,  exulting  in  freedom. 

[114] 


THE   JOB 

The  elevator  was  crowded  with  girls  in  new  white  frocks, 
voluble  about  their  afternoon's  plans.  One  of  them  car 
ried  a  wicker  suit-case.  She  was,  she  announced,  starting 
on  her  two  weeks*  vacation;  there  would  be  some  boys, 
and  she  was  going  to  have  "a  peach  of  a  time." 

Una  and  her  mother  had  again  spent  a  week  of  June  in 
Panama,  and  she  now  recalled  the  bright,  free  mornings 
and  lingering,  wonderful  twilights. 

She  had  no  place  to  go  this  holiday  afternoon,  and  she 
longed  to  join  a  noisy,  excited  party.  Of  Walter  Babson 
she  did  not  think.  She  stubbornly  determined  to  snatch 
this  time  of  freedom.  Why,  of  course,  she  asserted,  she 
could  play  by  herself  quite  happily!  With  a  spurious 
gaiety  she  patted  her  small  black  hand-bag.  She  skipped 
across  to  the  Sixth  Avenue  Elevated  and  went  up  to  the 
department-store  district.  She  made  elaborate  plans  for 
the  great  adventure  of  shopping.  Bessie  Kraker  had  in 
sisted,  with  the  nonchalant  shrillness  of  eighteen,  that 
Una  "had  ought  to  wear  more  color";  and  Una  had 
found,  in  the  fashion  section  of  a  woman's  magazine,  the 
suggestion  for  exactly  the  thing — "a  modest,  attractive 
frock  of  brown,  with  smart  touches  of  orange"  —  and 
economical.  She  had  the  dress  planned — ribbon-belt  half 
brown  and  half  orange,  a  collar  edged  with  orange,  cuffs 
slashed  with  it. 

There  were  a  score  of  mild  matter-of-fact  Unas  on  the 
same  Elevated  train  with  her,  in  their  black  hats  and 
black  jackets  and  black  skirts  and  white  waists,  with  one 
hint  of  coquetry  in  a  white-lace  jabot  or  a  white-lace  veil; 
faces  slightly  sallow  or  channeled  with  care,  but  eyes 
that  longed  to  flare  with  love;  women  whom  life  didn't 
want  except  to  type  its  letters  about  invoices  of  rubber 
heels;  women  who  would  have  given  their  salvation  for 
the  chance  to  sacrifice  themselves  for  love.  . . .  And  there 

[115] 


THE    JOB 

was  one  man  on  that  Elevated  train,  a  well-bathed  man 
with  cynical  eyes,  who  read  a  little  book  with  a  florid 
gold  cover,  all  about  Clytemnestra,  because  he  was  cer 
tain  that  modern  cities  have  no  fine  romance,  no  high 
tragedy;  that  you  must  go  back  to  the  Greeks  for  real 
feeling.  He  often  aphorized,  "Frightfully  hackneyed  to 
say,  'woman's  place  is  in  the  home,'  but  really,  you 
know,  these  women  going  to  offices,  vulgarizing  all  their 
fine  womanliness,  and  this  shrieking  sisterhood  going  in 
for  suffrage  and  Lord  knows  what.  Give  me  the  reticences 
of  the  harem  rather  than  one  of  these  office-women  with 
gum-chewing  vacuities.  None  of  them  clever  enough  to 
be  tragic!"  He  was  ever  so  whimsical  about  the  way  in 
which  the  suffrage  movement  had  cheated  him  of  the 
chance  to  find  a  "grande  amoureuse."  He  sat  opposite 
Una  in  the  train  and  solemnly  read  his  golden  book.  He 
did  not  see  Una  watch  with  shy  desire  every  movement  of 
a  baby  that  was  talking  to  its  mother  in  some  unknown 
dialect  of  baby-land.  He  was  feeling  deep  sensations 
about  Clytemnestra's  misfortunes — though  he  controlled 
his  features  in  the  most  gentlemanly  manner,  and  rose 
composedly  at  his  station,  letting  a  well-bred  glance  of 
pity  fall  upon  the  gum-chewers. 

Una  found  a  marvelously  clean,  new  restaurant  on  Sixth 
Avenue,  with  lace  curtains  at  the  window  and,  between  the 
curtains,  a  red  geranium  in  a  pot  covered  with  red- 
crepe  paper  tied  with  green  ribbon.  A  new  place!  She 
was  tired  of  the  office,  the  Elevated,  the  flat  on  148th 
Street,  the  restaurants  where  she  tediously  had  her  week 
day  lunches.  She  entered  the  new  restaurant  briskly, 
swinging  her  black  bag.  The  place  had  Personality — 
the  white  enameled  tables  were  set  diagonally  and  clothed 
with  strips  of  Japanese  toweling.  Una  smiled  at  a  lively 
photograph  of  two  bunnies  in  a  basket.  With  a  sensation 

[1161 


THE    JOB 

of  freedom  and  novelty  she  ordered  coffee,  chicken  patty, 
and  cocoanut  layer-cake. 

But  the  patty  and  the  cake  were  very  much  like  the 
hundreds  of  other  patties  and  cakes  which  she  had  con 
sumed  during  the  past  two  years,  and  the  people  about 
her  were  of  the  horde  of  lonely  workers  who  make  up  half 
of  New  York.  The  holiday  enchantment  dissolved.  She 
might  as  well  be  going  back  to  the  office  grind  after  lunch ! 
She  brooded,  while  outside,  in  that  seething  summer 
street,  the  pageant  of  life  passed  by  and  no  voice  summoned 
her.  Men  and  girls  and  motors,  people  who  laughed  and 
waged  commerce  for  the  reward  of  love — they  passed  her 
by,  life  passed  her  by,  a  spectator  untouched  by  joy  or 
noble  tragedy,  a  woman  desperately  hungry  for  life. 

She  began — but  not  bitterly,  she  was  a  good  little 
thing,  you  know — to  make  the  old  familiar  summary. 
She  had  no  lover,  no  friend,  no  future.  Walter — he  might 
be  dead,  or  married.  Her  mother  and  the  office,  between 
them,  left  her  no  time  to  seek  lover  or  friend  or  success. 
She  was  a  prisoner  of  affection  and  conscience. 

She  rose  and  paid  her  check.  She  did  not  glance  at  the 
picture  of  the  bunnies  in  a  basket.  She  passed  out  heavily, 
a  woman  of  sterile  sorrow. 

§5 

Una  recovered  her  holiday  by  going  shopping.  An 
aisle-man  in  the  dress-goods  department,  a  magnificent 
creature  in  a  braided  morning-coat,  directed  her  to  the 
counter  she  asked  for,  spoke  eloquently  of  woolen  voiles, 
picked  up  her  bag,  and  remarked,  "Yes,  we  do  manage 
to  keep  it  cool  here,  even  on  the  hottest  days."  A  shop 
girl  laughed  with  her.  She  stole  into  one  of  the  elevators, 
and,  though  she  really  should  have  gone  home  to  her 

[1HJ 


THE   JOB 

mother,  she  went  into  the  music  department,  where, 
among  lattices  wreathed  with  newly  dusted  roses,  she 
listened  to  waltzes  and  two-steps  played  by  a  red-haired 
girl  who  was  chewing  gum  and  talking  to  a  man  while  she 
played.  The  music  roused  Una  to  plan  a  wild  dissipa 
tion.  She  would  pretend  that  she  had  a  sweetheart,  that 
with  him  she  was  a-roving. 

Una  was  not  highly  successful  hi  her  make-believe. 
She  could  not  picture  the  imaginary  man  who  walked 
beside  her.  She  refused  to  permit  him  to  resemble  Walter 
Babson,  and  he  refused  to  resemble  anybody  else.  But 
she  was  throbbingly  sure  he  was  there  as  she  entered  a 
drug-store  and  bought  a  "Berline  bonbon,"  a  confection 
guaranteed  to  increase  the  chronic  nervous  indigestion 
from  which  stenographers  suffer.  Her  shadow  lover  tried 
to  hold  her  hand.  She  snatched  it  away  and  blushed. 
She  fancied  that  a  matron  at  the  next  tiny  table  was 
watching  her  silly  play,  reflected  in  the  enormous  mirror 
behind  the  marble  soda-counter.  The  lover  vanished. 
As  she  left  the  drug-store  Una  was  pretending  that  she 
was  still  pretending,  but  found  it  difficult  to  feel  so  very 
exhilarated. 

She  permitted  herself  to  go  to  a  motion-picture  show. 
She  looked  over  all  the  posters  in  front  of  the  theater,  and 
a  train-wreck,  a  seaside  love-scene,  a  detective  drama,  all 
invited  her. 

A  man  in  the  seat  in  front  of  her  in  the  theater  nestled 
toward  his  sweetheart  and  harshly  muttered,  "Oh  you 
old  honey!"  In  the  red  light  from  the  globe  marking  an 
exit  she  saw  his  huge  red  hand,  with  its  thicket  of  little 
golden  hairs,  creep  toward  the  hand  of  the  girl. 

Una  longed  for  a  love-scene  on  the  motion-picture  screen. 

The  old,  slow  familiar  pain  of  congestion  in  the  back 
of  her  neck  came  back.  But  she  forgot  the  pain  when  the 

[118] 


THE    JOB 

love-scene  did  appear,  in  a  picture  of  a  lake  shore  with  a 
hotel  porch,  the  flat  sheen  of  photographed  water, 
rushing  boats,  and  a  young  hero  with  wavy  black  hair, 
who  dived  for  the  lady  and  bore  her  out  when  she  fell 
out  of  a  reasonably  safe  boat.  The  actor's  wet,  white 
flannels  clung  tight  about  his  massive  legs;  he  threw  back 
his  head  with  masculine  arrogance,  then  kissed  the  lady. 
Una  was  dizzy  with  that  kiss.  She  was  shrinking  before 
Walter's  lips  again.  She  could  feel  her  respectable,  type 
writer-hardened  fingers  stroke  the  actor's  swarthy,  virile 
jaw.  She  gasped  with  the  vividness  of  the  feeling.  She 
was  shocked  at  herself;  told  herself  she  was  not  being 
"nice";  looked  guiltily  about;  but  passionately  she  called 
for  the  presence  of  her  vague,  imaginary  lover. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear,  my  dear!"  she  whispered,  with 
a  terrible  cloistered  sweetness — whispered  to  love  itself. 

Deliberately  ignoring  the  mother  who  waited  at  home, 
she  determined  to  spend  a  riotous  evening  going  to  a  real 
theater,  a  real  play.  That  is,  if  she  could  get  a  fifty-cent 
seat. 

She  could  not. 

"It's  been  exciting,  running  away,  even  if  I  can't  go 
to  the  theater,"  Una  comforted  herself.  "I'll  go  down  to 
Lady  Sessions's  this  evening.  I'll  pack  mother  off  to  bed. 
I'll  take  the  Sessionses  up  some  ice-cream,  and  we'll  have 
a  jolly  time.  .  .  .  Mother  won't  care  if  I  go.  Or  maybe 
she'll  come  with  me"  —  knowing  all  the  while  that  her 
mother  would  not  come,  and  decidedly  would  care  if  Una 
deserted  her. 

However  negligible  her  mother  seemed  from  down 
town,  she  loomed  gigantic  as  Una  approached  their  flat 
and  assured  herself  that  she  was  glad  to  be  returning  to  the 
dear  one. 

The  flat  was  on  the  fifth  floor. 
[119] 


THE    JOB 

It  was  a  dizzying  climb — particularly  on  this  hot  after 
noon. 


As  Una  began  to  trudge  up  the  flat-sounding  slate 
treads  she  discovered  that  her  head  was  aching  as  though 
some  one  were  pinching  the  top  of  her  eyeballs.  Each 
time  she  moved  her  head  the  pain  came  in  a  perceptible 
wave.  The  hallway  reeked  with  that  smell  of  onions  and 
fried  fish  which  had  arrived  with  the  first  tenants.  Chil 
dren  were  dragging  noisy  objects  about  the  halls.  As 
the  throb  grew  sharper  during  the  centuries  it  took  her 
to  climb  the  first  three  flights  of  stairs,  Una  realized  how 
hot  she  was,  how  the  clammy  coolness  of  the  hall  was 
penetrated  by  stabs  of  street  heat  which  entered  through 
the  sun-haloed  windows  at  the  stair  landings. 

Una  knocked  at  the  door  of  her  flat  with  that  light, 
cheery  tapping  of  her  nails,  like  a  fairy  tattoo,  which 
usually  brought  her  mother  running  to  let  her  in.  She 
was  conscious,  almost  with  a  physical  sensation,  of  her 
mother;  wanted  to  hold  her  close  and,  in  the  ecstasy  of 
that  caress,  squeeze  the  office  weariness  from  her  soul. 
The  Little  Mother  Saint — she  was  coming  now — she  was 
hurrying — 

But  the  little  mother  was  not  hurrying.  There  was  no 
response  to  Una's  knock.  As  Una  stooped  in  the  dimness 
of  the  hallway  to  search  in  her  bag  for  her  latch-key,  the 
pain  pulsed  through  the  top  of  her  head  again.  She 
opened  the  door,  and  her  longing  for  the  embrace  of  her 
mother  disappeared  in  healthy  anger. 

The  living-room  was  in  disorder.  Her  mother  had  not 
touched  it  all  day — had  gone  off  and  left  it. 

"This  is  a  little  too  much!"  Una  said,  grimly. 

The  only  signs  of  life  were  Mrs.  Golden's  pack  of  cards 
[120] 


THE    JOB 

for  solitaire,  her  worn,  brown  Morris-chair,  and  accretions 
of  the  cheap  magazines  with  pretty-girl  covers  which 
Mrs.  Golden  ransacked  for  love-stories.  Mrs.  Golden 
had  been  reading  all  the  evening  before,  and  pages  of 
newspapers  were  crumpled  in  her  chair,  not  one  of  them 
picked  up.  The  couch,  where  Una  had  slept  because  it 
had  been  too  hot  for  the  two  of  them  in  a  double  bed, 
was  still  an  eruption  of  bedclothes — the  pillow  wadded 
up,  the  sheets  dragging  out  across  the  unswept  floor.  .  .  . 
The  room  represented  discomfort,  highly  respectable  pov 
erty — and  cleaning,  which  Una  had  to  do  before  she  could 
rest. 

She  sat  down  on  the  couch  and  groaned:  "To  have  to 
come  home  to  this!  I  simply  can't  trust  mother.  She 
hasn't  done  one — single — thing,  not  one  single  thing.  And 
if  it  were  only  the  first  time — !  But  it's  every  day,  pretty 
nearly.  She's  been  asleep  all  day,  and  then  gone  for  a 
walk.  Oh  yes,  of  course !  She'll  come  back  and  say  she'd 
forgotten  this  was  Saturday  and  I'd  be  home  early!  Oh, 
of  course!" 

From  the  bedroom  came  a  cough,  then  another.  Una 
tried  to  keep  her  soft  little  heart  in  its  temporary  state  of 
hardness  long  enough  to  have  some  effect  on  household 
discipline.  "Huh!"  she  grunted.  "Got  a  cold  again.  If 
she'd  only  stay  outdoors  a  little — " 

She  stalked  to  the  door  of  the  bedroom.  The  blind  was 
down,  the  window  closed,  the  room  stifling  and  filled  with 
a  yellow,  unwholesome  glimmer.  From  the  bed  her 
mother's  voice,  changed  from  its  usual  ring  to  a  croak 
that  was  crepuscular  as  the  creepy  room,  wheezed:  "That 
— you — deary?  I  got — summer — cold — so  sorry — leave 
work  undone — " 

"If  you  would  only  keep  your  windows  open,  my  dear 
mother — " 

9  [121] 


THE    JOB 

Una  marched  to  the  window,  snapped  up  the  blind 
banged  up  the  sash,  and  left  the  room. 

"I  really  can't  see  why!"  was  all  she  added.  She  die 
not  look  at  her  mother. 

She  slapped  the  living-room  into  order  as  though  the 
disordered  bedclothes  and  newspapers  were  bad  children 
She  put  the  potatoes  on  to  boil.  She  loosened  her  tighl 
collar  and  sat  down  to  read  the  "comic  strips,"  the 
"Beauty  Hints,"  and  the  daily  instalment  of  the  husband- 
and-wife  serial  in  her  evening  paper.  Una  had  nibblec 
at  Shakespeare,  Tennyson,  Longfellow,  and  Vanity 
Fair  in  her  high-school  days,  but  none  of  these  had 
satisfied  her  so  deeply  as  did  the  serial's  hint  of  sex  and 
husband.  She  was  absorbed  by  it.  Yet  all  the  while  she 
was  irritably  conscious  of  her  mother's  cough — hacking, 
sore-sounding,  throat-catching.  Una  wras  certain  thai 
this  was  merely  one  of  the  frequent  imaginary  ailments 
of  her  mother,  who  was  capable  of  believing  that  she  had 
cancer  every  time  she  was  bitten  by  a  mosquito.  But  this 
incessant  crackling  made  Una  jumpily  anxious. 

She  reached  these  words  in  the  serial:  "I  cannot  forget, 
Amy,  that  whatever  I  am,  my  good  old  mother  made  me. 
with  her  untiring  care  and  the  gentle  words  she  spoke  tc 
me  when  worried  and  harassed  with  doubt." 

Una  threw  down  the  paper,  rushed  into  the  bedroom, 
!  crouched  beside  her  mother,  crying,  "Oh,  my  mothei 
sweetheart!  You're  just  everything  to  me,"  and  kissed 
her  forehead. 

The  forehead  was  damp  and  cold,  like  a  cellar  wall. 
Una  sat  bolt  up  in  horror.  Her  mother's  face  had  a 
dusky  flush,  her  lips  were  livid  as  clotted  blood.  Hei 
arms  were  stiff,  hard  to  the  touch.  Her  breathing, 
rapid  and  agitated,  like  a  frightened  panting,  was  in 
terrupted  just  then  by  a  cough  like  the  rattling  oi 

[122] 


THE    JOB 

stiff,  heavy  paper,  which  left  on  her  purple  lips  a  little 
colorless  liquid. 

"Mother!  Mother!  My  little  mother — you're  sick, 
you're  really  sick,  and  I  didn't  know  and  I  spoke  so  harsh 
ly.  Oh,  what  is  it,  what  is  it,  mother  dear?" 

"Bad— cold,"  Mrs.  Golden  whispered.  "I  started 
coughing  last  night — I  closed  the  door — you  didn't  hear 
me;  you  were  in  the  other  room — "  Another  cough 
wheezed  dismally,  shook  her,  gurgled  in  her  yellow  deep- 
lined  neck.  "C-could  I  have — window  closed  now?" 

"No.  I'm  going  to  be  your  nurse.  Just  an  awfully 
cranky  old  nurse,  and  so  scientific.  And  you  must  have 
fresh  air."  Her  voice  broke.  "Oh,  and  me  sleeping  away 
from  you!  I'll  never  do  it  again.  I  don't  know  what  I 
would  do  if  anything  happened  to  you.  .  .  .  Do  you  feel 
any  headache,  dear?" 

"No — not — not  so  much  as —    Side  pains  me — here." 

Mrs.  Golden's  words  labored  like  a  steamer  in  heavy 
seas;  the  throbbing  of  her  heart  shook  them  like  the 
throb  of  the  engines.  She  put  her  hand  to  her  right 
side,  shakily,  with  effort.  It  lay  there,  yellow  against 
the  white  muslin  of  her  nightgown,  then  fell  heavily  to 
the  bed,  like  a  dead  thing.  Una  trembled  with  fear  as 
her  mother  continued,  "My  pulse — it's  so  fast — so  hard 
breathing — side  pain." 

"I'll  put  on  an  ice  compress  and  then  I'll  go  and  get  a 
doctor." 

Mrs.  Golden  tried  to  sit  up.  "Oh  no,  no,  no!  Not  a 
doctor!  Not  a  doctor!"  she  croaked.  "Doctor  Smyth 
will  be  busy." 

"Well,  I'll  have  him  come  when  he's  through." 

"Oh  no,  no,  can't  afford — " 

"Why—" 

"And — they  scare  you  so — he'd  pretend  I  had  pneu- 

[123] 


THE    JOB 

monia,  like  Sam's  sister — he'd  frighten  me  so — I  just  have 
a  summer  cold.  I — I'll  be  all  right  to-morrow,  deary. 
Oh  no,  no,  please  don't,  please  don't  get  a  doctor* 
Can't  afford  it— can't— " 

Pneumonia!  At  the  word,  which  brought  the  sterile 
bitterness  of  winter  into  this  fetid  August  room,  Una  waa 
in  a  rigor  of  fear,  yet  galvanized  with  belief  in  her  mother's 
bravery.  "My  brave,  brave  little  mother!"  she  thought, 

Not  till  Una  had  promised  that  she  would  not  summon 
the  doctor  was  her  mother  quieted,  though  Una  made  the 
promise  with  reservations.  She  relieved  the  pain  in  her 
mother's  side  with  ice  compresses — the  ice  chipped  from 
the  pitiful  little  cake  in  their  tiny  ice-box.  She  freshened 
pillows,  she  smoothed  sheets;  she  made  hot  broth  and 
bathed  her  mother's  shoulders  with  tepid  water  and  rubbed 
her  temples  with  menthol.  But  the  fever  increased,  and 
at  times  Mrs.  Golden  broke  through  her  shallow  slumber 
with  meaningless  sentences,  like  the  beginning  of  delirium. 

At  midnight  she  was  panting  more  and  more  rapidly — 
three  times  as  fast  as  normal  breathing.  She  was  sunk 
in  a  stupor.  And  Una,  brooding  by  the  bed,  a  crouched 
figure  of  mute  tragedy  in  the  low  light,  grew  more  and 
more  apprehensive  as  her  mother  seemed  to  be  borne 
away  from  her.  Una  started  up.  She  would  risk  her 
mother's  displeasure  and  bring  the  doctor.  Just  then, 
even  Doctor  Smyth  of  the  neighborhood  practice  and  ob 
stetrical  habits  seemed  a  miracle-worker. 

She  had  to  go  four  blocks  to  the  nearest  drug-store 
that  would  be  open  at  this  time  of  night,  and  there  tele 
phone  the  doctor. 

She  was  aware  that  it  was  raining,  for  the  fire-escape 
outside  shone  wet  in  the  light  from  a  window  across  the 
narrow  court.  She  discovered  she  had  left  mackintosh 
and  umbrella  at  the  office.  Stopping  only  to  set  out  a 

[124] 


THE   JOB 

clean  towel,  a  spoon,  and  a  glass  on  the  chair  by  the  bed, 
Una  put  on  the  old  sweater  which  she  secretly  wore  under 
her  cheap  thin  jacket  in  winter.  She  lumbered  wearily 
down-stairs.  She  prayed  confusedly  that  God  would  give 
her  back  her  headache  and  in  reward  make  her  mother  well. 

She  was  down-stairs  at  the  heavy,  grilled  door.  Rain 
was  pouring.  A  light  six  stories  up  in  the  apartment- 
house  across  the  street  seemed  infinitely  distant  and 
lonely,  curtained  from  her  by  the  rain.  Water  splashed 
in  the  street  and  gurgled  in  the  gutters.  It  did  not  belong 
to  the  city  as  it  would  have  belonged  to  brown  woods  or 
prairie.  It  was  violent  here,  shocking  and  terrible.  It 
took  distinct  effort  for  Una  to  wade  out  into  it. 

The  modern  city!  Subway,  asphalt,  a  wireless  message 
winging  overhead,  and  Una  Golden,  an  office-woman  in 
eye-glasses.  Yet  sickness  and  rain  and  night  were  abroad; 
and  it  was  a  clumsily  wrapped  peasant  woman,  bent- 
shouldered  and  heavily  breathing,  who  trudged  unpro 
tected  through  the  dark  side-streets  as  though  she  were 
creeping  along  moorland  paths.  Her  thought  was  dulled 
to  everything  but  physical  discomfort  and  the  illness 
which  menaced  the  beloved.  Woman's  eternal  agony 
for  the  sick  of  her  family  had  transformed  the  trim 
smoothness  of  the  office-woman's  face  into  wrinkles  that 
were  tragic  and  ruggedly  beautiful. 


Again  Una  climbed  the  endless  stairs  to  her  flat.  She 
unconsciously  counted  the  beat  of  the  weary,  regular 
rhythm  which  her  feet  made  on  the  slate  treads  and  the 
landings— one,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six,  seven,  landing, 
turn  and— one,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six,  seven— over 
and  over.  At  the  foot  of  the  last  flight  she  suddenly 

[125] 


THE    JOB 

believed  that  her  mother  needed  her  this  instant.  She 
broke  the  regular  thumping  rhythm  of  her  climb,  dashed 
up,  cried  out  at  the  seconds  wasted  in  unlocking  the  door. 
She  tiptoed  into  the  bedroom — and  found  her  mother  just 
as  she  had  left  her.  In  Una's  low  groan  of  gladness  there 
was  all  the  world's  self-sacrifice,  all  the  fidelity  to  a  cause 
or  to  a  love.  But  as  she  sat  unmoving  she  came  to  feel 
that  her  mother  was  not  there;  her  being  was  not  in  this 
wreck  upon  the  bed. 

In  an  hour  the  doctor  soothed  his  way  into  the  flat. 
He  "was  afraid  there  might  be  just  a  little  touch  of  pneu 
monia."  With  breezy  fatherliness  which  inspirited  Una, 
he  spoke  of  the  possible  presence  of  pneumococcus,  of 
doing  magic  things  with  Homer's  serum,  of  trusting  in 
God,  of  the  rain,  of  cold  baths  and  digitalin.  He  patted 
Una's  head  and  cheerily  promised  to  return  at  dawn. 
He  yawned  and  smiled  at  himself.  He  looked  as  roundly, 
fuzzily  sleepy  as  a  bunny  rabbit,  but  in  the  quiet,  forlorn 
room  of  night  and  illness  he  radiated  trust  in  himself. 
Una  said  to  herself,  "He  certainly  must  know  what  he  is 
talking  about." 

She  was  sure  that  the  danger  was  over.  She  did  not 
go  to  bed,  however.  She  sat  stiffly  in  the  bedroom  and 
plr.nned  amusements  for  her  mother.  She  would  work 
harder,  earn  more  money.  They  would  move  to  a  cottage  in 
the  suburbs,  where  they  would  have  chickens  and  roses  and 
a  kitten,  and  her  mother  would  find  neighborly  people  again. 

Five  days  after,  late  on  a  bright,  cool  afternoon,  when 
all  the  flats  about  them  were  thinking  of  dinner, her  mother 
died. 

§8 

There  was  a  certain  madness  in  Una's  grief.  Her  agony 
was  a  big,  simple,  uncontrollable  emotion,  like  the  fanat- 


THE    JOB 

icism  of  a  crusader — alarming,  it  was,  not  to  be  reckoned 
with,  and  beautiful  as  a  storm.  Yet  it  was  no  more  morbi •:! 
than  the  little  fits  of  rage  with  which  a  school-teacher 
relieves  her  cramped  spirit.  For  the  first  time  she  haj 
the  excuse  to  exercise  her  full  power  of  emotion. 

Una  evoked  an  image  of  her  mother  as  one  who  had 
been  altogether  good,  understanding,  clever,  and  unfor 
tunate.  She  regretted  every  moment  she  had  spent  away 
from  her — remembered  with  scorn  that  she  had  planned 
to  go  to  the  theater  the  preceding  Saturday,  instead  of 
sanctifying  the  time  in  the  Nirvana  of  the  beloved's 
presence;  repented  with  writhing  agony  having  spoken 
harshly  about  neglected  household  duties. 

She  even  contrived  to  find  it  a  virtue  in  her  mother  that 
she  had  so  often  forgotten  the  daily  tasks — her  mind  had 
been  too  fine  for  such  things.  .  .  .  Una  retraced  their  life. 
But  she  remembered  everything  only  as  one  remembers 
under  the  sway  of  music. 

"If  I  could  just  have  another  hour,  just  one  hour  with 
her,  and  feel  her  hands  on  my  eyes  again— 

On  the  night  before  the  funeral  she  refused  to  let  even 
Mrs.  Sessions  stay  with  her.  She  did  not  want  to  share 
her  mother's  shadowy  presence  with  any  one. 

She  lay  on  the  floor  beside  the  bed  where  her  .mother 
was  stately  in  death.  It  was  her  last  chance  to  talk  to  her: 

"Mother  .  .  .  Mother  .  .  .  Don't  you  hear  me?  It's  Una 
calling.  Can't  you  answer  me  this  one  last  time? 
mother,  think,  mother  dear,  I  can't  ever  hear  your  voice 
again  if  you  don't  speak  to  me  now.  .  .  .  Don't  you  re 
member  how  we  went  home  to  Panama,  our  last  vaca 
tion?  Don't  you  remember  how  happy  we  were  down  at 
the  lake?  Little  mother,  you  haven't  forgotten,  have  you? 
Even  if  you  don't  answer,  you  know  I'm  watching  by  you, 
don't  you?  See,  I'm  kissing  your  hand.  Oh,  you  did 

[127] 


THE  "JOB 

want  me  to  sleep  near  you  again,  this  last  night —  Oh, 
my  God!  oh,  my  God!  the  last  night  I  shall  ever  spend 
with  her,  the  very  last,  last  night." 

All  night  long  the  thin  voice  came  from  the  little  white- 
clad  figure  so  insignificant  in  the  dimness,  now  lying  mo 
tionless  on  the  comforter  she  had  spread  beside  the  bed, 
and  talking  in  a  tone  of  ordinary  conversation  that  was 
uncanny  in  this  room  of  invisible  whisperers;  now  leaping 
up  to  kiss  the  dead  hand  in  a  panic,  lest  it  should  already 
be  gone. 

The  funeral  filled  the  house  with  intruders.  The  drive 
to  the  cemetery  was  irritating.  She  wanted  to  leap  out 
of  the  carriage.  At  first  she  concentrated  on  the  cushion 
beside  her  till  she  thought  of  nothing  in  the  world  but 
the  faded  bottle-green  upholstery,  and  a  ridiculous  drift 
of  dust  in  the  tufting.  But  some  one  was  talking  to  her. 
(It  was  awkward  Mr.  Sessions,  for  shrewd  Mrs.  Sessions 
had  the  genius  to  keep  still.)  He  kept  stammering  the 
most  absurd  platitudes  about  how  happy  her  mother 
must  be  in  a  heaven  regarding  which  he  did  not  seem  to 
have  very  recent  or  definite  knowledge.  She  was  an 
noyed,  not  comforted.  She  wanted  to  break  away,  to 
find  her  mother's  presence  again  in  that  sacred  place 
where  she  had  so  recently  lived  and  spoken. 

Yet,  when  Una  returned  to  the  flat,  something  was  gone, 
She  tried  to  concentrate  on  thought  about  immortality, 
She  found  that  she  had  absolutely  no  facts  upon  which 
to  base  her  thought.  The  hundreds  of  good,  sound; 
orthodox  sermons  she  had  heard  gave  her  nothing  bu1 
vague  pictures  of  an  eternal  church  supper  somewhere  ir 
the  clouds — nothing,  blankly  and  terribly  nothing,  thai 
answered  her  bewildered  wonder  as  to  what  had  become 
of  the  spirit  which  had  been  there  and  now  was  gone. 
In  the  midst  of  her  mingling  of  longing  and  doubt  she 

[128] 


THE   JOB 

realized  that  she  was  hungry,  and  she  rather  regretted 
having  refused  Mrs.  Sessions's  invitation  to  dinner.  She 
moved  slowly  about  the  kitchen. 

The  rheumatic  old  canary  hobbled  along  the  floor  of 
his  cage  and  tried  to  sing.  At  that  Una  wept,  "She  never 
will  hear  poor  Dickie  sing  again." 

Instantly  she  remembered — as  clearly  as  though  she 
were  actually  listening  to  the  voice  and  words — that  her 
mother  had  burst  out,  "Drat  that  bird,  it  does  seem  as  if 
every  time  I  try  to  take  a  nap  he  just  tries  to  wake  me  up." 
Una  laughed  grimly.  Hastily  she  reproved  herself,  "Oh, 
but  mother  didn't  mean — " 

But  in  memory  of  that  healthily  vexed  voice,  it  seemed 
less  wicked  to  take  notice  of  food,  and  after  a  reasonable 
dinner  she  put  on  her  kimono  and  bedroom  slippers, 
carefully  arranged  the  pillows  on  the  couch,  and  lay  among 
them,  meditating  on  her  future. 

For  half  an  hour  she  was  afire  with  an  eager  thought: 

V'Why  can't  I  really  make  a  success  of  business,  now  that 

I  can  entirely  devote  myself  to  it?    There's  women — in 

real  estate,  and  lawyers  and  magazine  editors — some  of 

them  make  ten  thousand  a  year." 

So  Una  Golden  ceased  to  live  a  small-town  life  in  New 
York;  so  she  became  a  genuine  part  of  the  world  of 
offices;  took  thought  and  tried  to  conquer  this  new  way 
of  city-dwelling. 

"Maybe  I  can  find  out  if  there's  anything  in  life — now 
—besides  working  for  T.  W.  till  I'm  scrapped  like  an  old 
machine,"  she  pondered.  "How  I  hate  letters  about  two- 
family  houses  in  Flatbush!" 

She  dug  her  knuckles  into  her  forehead  in  the  effort 
to  visualize  the  problem  of  the  hopeless  women  in  in 
dustry. 

She  was  an  Average  Young  Woman  on  a  Job;    she 

[129] 


THE   JOB 

thought  in  terms  of  money  and  offices;  yet  she  was  one 
with  all  the  men  and  women,  young  and  old,  who  were 
creating  a  new  age.    She  was  nothing  in  herself,  yet  asr 
the  molecule  of  water  belongs   to  the  ocean,   so  Una; 
Golden  humbly  belonged  to  the  leaven  who,  however! 
confusedly,  were  beginning  to  demand,  "Why,  since  wel 
have  machinery,  science,  courage,  need  we  go  on  tolerating 
war  and  poverty  and  caste  and  uncouthness,  and  all  tjaat 
sheer  clumsiness?"  /^/ 


Part   II 
THE    OFFICE 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  effect  of  grief  is  commonly  reputed  to  be  noble. 
But  mostly  it  is  a  sterile  nobility.  Witness  the  wid 
ows  who  drape  their  musty  weeds  over  all  the  living; 
witness  the  mother  of  a  son  killed  in  war  who  urges  her 
son's  comrades  to  bring  mourning  to  the  mothers  of  all 
the  sons  on  the  other  side. 

Grief  is  a  paralyzing  poison.  It  broke  down  Una's 
resistance  to  the  cares  of  the  office.  Hers  was  no  whole 
some  labor  in  which  she  could  find  sacred  forge tfulness. 
It  was  the  round  of  unessentials  which  all  office-women 
know  so  desperately  well.  She  bruised  herself  by  shrink 
ing  from  those  hourly  insults  to  her  intelligence;  and  out 
side  the  office  her  most  absorbing  comfort  was  in  the 
luxury  of  mourning — passion  in  black,  even  to  the  black- 
edged  face-veil.  .  .  .  Though  she  was  human  enough  to 
realize  that  with  her  fair  hair  she  looked  rather  well  in 
mourning,  and  shrewd  enough  to  get  it  on  credit  at  ex 
cellent  terms. 

She  was  in  the  office  all  day,  being  as  curtly  exact  as 
she  could.  But  in  the  evening  she  sat  alone  in  her  flat 
and  feared  the  city. 

Sometimes  she  rushed  down  to  the  Sessionses*  flat,  but 
the  good  people  bored  her  with  their  assumption  that  she 
was  panting  to  know  all  the  news  from  Panama.  She  had 
drifted  so  far  away  from  the  town  that  the  sixth  assertion 
that  "it  was  a  great  pity  Kitty  Wilson  was  going  to  marry 

[133] 


THE   JOB 

that  worthless  Clark  boy"  aroused  no  interest  in  her. 
She  was  still  more  bored  by  their  phonograph,  on  which 
thqjr  played  over  and  over  the  same  twenty  records.  She 
would  make  quick,  unconvincing  excuses  about  having 
to  hurry  away.  Their  slippered  stupidity  was  a  desecra 
tion  of  her  mother's  memory. 

Her  half-hysterical  fear  of  the  city's  power  was  in 
creased  by  her  daily  encounter  with  the  clamorous  streets, 
crowded  elevators,  frantic  lunch-rooms,  and,  most  of  all, 
the  experience  of  the  Subway. 

Amazing,  incredible,  the  Subway,  and  the  fact  that 
human  beings  could  become  used  to  it,  consent  to  spend 
an  hour  in  it  daily.  There  was  a  heroic  side  to  this 
spectacle  of  steel  trains  clanging  at  forty  miles  an  hour 
beneath  twenty-story  buildings.  The  engineers  had  done 
their  work  well,  made  a  great  thought  in  steel  and  cement. 
And  then  the  business  men  and  bureaucrats  had  made  the 
great  thought  a  curse.  There  was  in  the  Subway  all  the 
romance  which  story-telling  youth  goes  seeking:  trains 
crammed  with  an  inconceivable  complexity  of  people — 
marquises  of  the  Holy  Roman  Empire,  Jewish  factory 
hands,  speculators  from  Wyoming,  Iowa  dairymen,  quar 
reling  Italian  lovers,  with  their  dramatic  tales,  their  flux 
of  every  human  emotion,  under  the  city  mask.  But  how 
ever  striking  these  dramatic  characters  may  be  to  the 
occasional  spectator,  they  figure  merely  as  an  odor,  a 
confusion,  to  the  permanent  serf  of  the  Subway.  ...  A 
long  underground  station,  a  catacomb  with  a  cement  plat 
form,  this  was  the  chief  feature  of  the  city  vista  to  the 
tired  girl  who  waited  there  each  morning.  A  clean  space, 
but  damp,  stale,  like  the  corridor  to  a  prison — as  indeed 
it  was,  since  through  it  each  morning  Una  entered  the 
day's  business  life. 

Then,  the  train  approaching,  filling  the  tunnel,  like  a 

[134] 


THE    JOB 

piston  smashing  into  a  cylinder;  the  shoving  rush  to  get 
aboard.  A  crush  that  was  ruffling  and  fatiguing  to  a  man, 
but  to  a  woman  was  horror. 

Una  stood  with  a  hulking  man  pressing  as  close  to  her 
side  as  he  dared,  and  a  dapper  clerkling  squeezed  against 
her  breast.  Above  her  head,  to  represent  the  city's  culture 
and  graciousness,  there  were  advertisements  of  soap, 
stockings,  and  collars.  At  curves  the  wheels  ground  with 
a  long,  savage  whine,  the  train  heeled,  and  she  was  flung 
into  the  arms  of  the  grinning  clerk,  who  held  her  tight. 
She,  who  must  never  be  so  unladylike  as  to  enter  a  polling- 
place,  had  breathed  into  her  very  mouth  the  clerkling's 
virile  electoral  odor  of  cigarettes  and  onions  and  decayed 
teeth. 

A  very  good  thing,  the  Subway.  It  did  make  Una 
quiver  with  the  beginnings  of  rebellious  thought  as  no 
suave  preacher  could  ever  have  done.  Almost  hysterically 
she  resented  this  daily  indignity,  which  smeared  her  clean, 
cool  womanhood  with  a  grease  of  noise  and  smell  and 
human  contact. 

As  was  the  Subway,  so  were  her  noons  of  elbowing  to 
get  impure  food  in  restaurants. 

For  reward  she  was  permitted  to  work  all  day  with 
Troy  Wilkins.  And  for  heavens  and  green  earth,  she  had 
a  chair  and  a  desk. 

But  the  human  organism,  which  can  modify  itself  to 
arctic  cold  and  Indian  heat,  to  incessant  labor  or  the  long 
enervation  of  luxury,  learns  to  endure.  Unwilling  dressing, 
lonely  breakfast,  the  Subway,  dull  work,  lunch,  sleepiness 
after  lunch,  the  hopelessness  of  three  o'clock,  the  boss's 
ill-tempers,  then  the  Subway  again,  and  a  lonely  flat,  with 
no  love,  no  creative  work;  and  at  last  a  long  sleep  so  that 
she  might  be  fresh  for  such  another  round  of  delight.  So 
went  the  days.  Yet  all  through  them  she  found  amuse- 

[135] 


5 


THE    JOB 

ment,  laughed  now  and  then,  and  proved  the  heroism  as 
well  as  the  unthinking  servility  of  the  human  race. 

§2 

The  need  of  feeling  that  there  were  people  near  to  he* 
urged  Una  to  sell  her  furniture  and  move  from  the  flat 
to  a  boarding-house. 

She  avoided  Mrs.  Sessions's  advice.  She  was  sure  that 
Mrs.  Sessions  would  bustle  about  and  find  her  a  respect 
able  place  where  she  would  have  to  be  cheery.  She  didn't 
want  to  be  cheery.  She  wanted  to  think.  She  even  bought 
a  serious  magazine  with  articles.  Not  that  she  read  it. 

But  she  was  afraid  to  be  alone  any  more.  Anyway,  she 
would  explore  the  city. 

Of  the  many  New  Yorks,  she  had  found  only  Morning- 
side  Park,  Central  Park,  Riverside  Drive,  the  shopping 
district,  the  restaurants  and  theaters  which  Walter  had 
discovered  to  her,  a  few  down-town  office  streets,  and  her 
own  arid  region  of  flats.  She  did  not  know  the  proliferating 
East  Side,  the  factories,  the  endless  semi-suburban  stretches 
— nor  Fifth  Avenue.  Her  mother  and  Mrs.  Sessions  had 
inculcated  in  her  the  earnest  idea  that  most  parts  of  New 
York  weren't  quite  nice.  In  over  two  years  in  the  city  she 
had  never  seen  a  millionaire  nor  a  criminal;  she  knew  the 
picturesqueness  neither  of  wealth  nor  of  pariah  poverty. 

She  did  not  look  like  an  adventurer  when,  at  a  Saturday 
noon  of  October,  she  left  the  office — slight,  kindly,  rather 
timid,  with  her  pale  hair  and  school-teacher  eye-glasses, 
and  clear  cheeks  set  off  by  comely  mourning.  But  she 
was  seizing  New  York.  She  said  over  and  over,  "  Why,  I 
can  go  and  live  any  place  I  want  to,  and  maybe  I'll  meet 
some  folks  who  are  simply  fascinating."  She  wasn't  very 
definite  about  these  fascinating  folks,  but  they  implied 

[136] 


THE    JOB 

girls  to  play  with  and — she  hesitated — and  decidedly  men, 
men  different  from  Walter,  who  would  touch  her  hand  in 
courtly  reverence. 

She  poked  through  strange  streets.  She  carried  an 
assortment  of  "Rooms  and  Board"  clippings  from  the 
"want-ad"  page  of  a  newspaper,  and  obediently  followed 
their  hints  about  finding  the  perfect  place.  She  resolutely 
did  not  stop  at  places  not  advertised  in  the  paper,  though 
nearly  every  house,  in  some  quarters,  had  a  sign,  "Room 
to  Rent."  Una  still  had  faith  in  the  veracity  of  whatever 
appeared  in  the  public  prints,  as  compared  with  what  she 
dared  see  for  herself. 

The  advertisements  led  her  into  a  dozen  parts  of  the 
city  frequented  by  roomers,  the  lonely,  gray,  detached 
people  who  dwell  in  other  people's  houses. 

It  was  not  so  splendid  a  quest  as  she  had  hoped;  it  was 
too  sharp  a  revelation  of  the  cannon-food  of  the  city,  the 
people  who  had  never  been  trained,  and  who  had  lost 
heart.  It  was  scarcely  possible  to  tell  one  street  from  an 
other;  to  remember  whether  she  was  on  Sixteenth  Street 
or  Twenty-sixth.  Always  the  same  rows  of  red-brick 
or  brownstone  houses,  all  alike,  the  monotony  broken 
only  by  infrequent  warehouses  or  loft-buildings;  always 
the  same  doubtful  mounting  of  stone  steps,  the  same 
searching  for  a  bell,  the  same  waiting,  the  same  slatternly, 
suspicious  landlady,  the  same  evil  hallway  with  a  brown 
hat-rack,  a  steel-engraving  with  one  corner  stained  with 
yellow,  a  carpet  worn  through  to  the  flooring  in  a  large 
oval  hole  just  in  front  of  the  stairs,  a  smell  of  cabbage, 
a  lack  of  ventilation.  Always  the  same  desire  to  escape, 
though  she  waited  politely  while  the  landlady  in  the  same 
familiar  harsh  voice  went  through  the  same  formula. 

Then,  before  she  could  flee  to  the  comparatively  fresh 
air  of  the  streets,  Uma  would  politely  have  to  follow  the 

10  [137] 


THE    JOB 

panting  landlady  to  a  room  that  was  a  horror  of  dirty 
carpet,  lumpy  mattress,  and  furniture  with  everything  wore 
off  that  could  wear  off.  And  at  last,  always  the  sam€ 
phrases  by  which  Una  meant  to  spare  the  woman :  "  Well. 
I'll  think  it  over.  Thank  you  so  much  for  showing  me  the 
rooms,  but  before  I  decide —  Want  to  look  around — " 

Phrases  which  the  landlady  heard  ten  times  a  day. 

She  conceived  a  great-hearted  pity  for  landladies.  They 
were  so  patient,  in  face  of  her  evident  distaste.  Even 
their  suspiciousness  was  but  the  growling  of  a  beaten  dog. 
They  sighed  and  closed  their  doors  on  her  without  much 
attempt  to  persuade  her  to  stay.  Her  heart  ached  with 
their  lack  of  imagination.  They  had  no  more  imagination 
than  those  landladies  of  the  insect  world,  the  spiders, 
with  their  unchanging,  instinctive,  ancestral  types  of  webs. 

Her  depression  was  increased  by  the  desperate  physical 
weariness  of  the  hunt.  Not  that  afternoon,  not  till  two 
weeks  later,  did  she  find  a  room  in  a  large,  long,  somber 
railroad  flat  on  Lexington  Avenue,  conducted  by  a  curly- 
haired  young  bookkeeper  and  his  pretty  wife,  who  pro 
vided  their  clients  with  sympathy,  with  extensive  and 
scientific  data  regarding  the  motion-picture  houses  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  board  which  was  neither  scientific 
nor  very  extensive. 

It  was  time  for  Una  to  sacrifice  the  last  material  con 
tact  with  her  mother;  to  sell  the  furniture  which  she  had 
known  ever  since,  as  a  baby  in  Panama,  she  had  crawled 
from  this  horsehair  chair,  all  the  long  and  perilous  way 
across  this  same  brown  carpet,  to  this  red-plush  couch. 


It  was  not  so  hard  to  sell  the  furniture;    she  could  even 
read  and  burn  her  father's  letters  with  an  unhappy  reso- 

[138] 


THE   JOB 

luteness.  Despite  her  tenderness,  IJna  had  something  of 
youth's  joy  in  getting  rid  of  old-thing*,  as  preparation 
for  acquiring  the  new.  She  did  sob  when  she  found  her 
mother's  straw  hat,  just  as  Mrs.  Golden  had  left  it,  on  the 
high  shelf  of  the  wardrobe — as  though  her  mother  might 
come  in  at  any  minute,  put  it  on,  and  start  for  a  walk. 
She  sobbed  again  when  she  encountered  the  tiny  tear  in  the 
bottom  of  the  couch,  which  her  own  baby  fingers  had  made 
in  trying  to  enlarge  a  pirate's  cave.  That  brought  the 
days  when  her  parents  were  immortal  and  all-wise;  when 
the  home  sitting-room,  where  her  father  read  the  paper 
aloud,  was  a  security  against  all  the  formidable  world 
outside. 

But  to  these  recollections  Una  could  shut  her  heart. 
To  one  absurd  thing,  because  it  was  living,  Una  could  not 
shut  her  heart — to  the  senile  canary. 

Possibly  she  could  have  taken  it  with  her,  but  she  felt 
confusedly  that  Dickie  would  not  be  appreciated  in  other 
people's  houses.  She  evaded  asking  the  Sessionscs  to 
shelter  the  bird,  because  every  favor  that  she  permitted 
from  that  smug  family  was  a  bond  that  tied  her  to  their 
life  of  married  spinsterhood. 

"Oh,  Dickie,  Dickie,  what  am  I  going  to  do  with  you?" 
she  cried,  slipping  a  finger  through  the  wires  of  the  cage. 

The  canary  hopped  toward  her  and  tried  to  chirp  his 
greeting. 

"Even  when  you  were  sick  you  tried  to  sing  to  me,  and 
mother  did  love  you,"  she  sighed.  "I  just  can't  kill  you 
— trusting  me  like  that." 

She  turned  her  back,  seeking  to  solve  the  problem  by 
ignoring  it.  While  she  was  sorting  dresses— some  trace 
of  her  mother  in  every  fold,  every  wrinkle  of  the  waists 
and  lace  collars— she  was  listening  to  the  bird  in  the  cage. 

"I'll  think  of  some  way— I'll  find  somebody  who  will 

[139] 


THE    JOB 

want  you,  Dickie  dear,"  she  murmured,  desperately,  now 
and  then. 

After  dinner  and  nightfall,  with  her  nerves  twanging 
all  the  more  because  it  seemed  silly  to  worry  over  one 
dissolute  old  bird  when  all  her  life  was  breaking  up,  she 
hysterically  sprang  up,  snatched  Dickie  from  the  cage, 
and  trotted  down-stairs  to  the  street. 

"I'll  leave  you  somewhere.  Somebody  will  find  you," 
she  declared. 

Concealing  the  bird  by  holding  it  against  her  breast 
with  a  hand  supersensitive  to  its  warm  little  feathers,  she 
walked  till  she  found  a  deserted  tenement  doorway.  She 
hastily  set  the  bird  down  on  a  stone  balustrade  beside 
the  entrance  steps.  Dickie  chirped  more  cheerily,  more 
sweetly  than  for  many  days,  and  confidingly  hopped  back 
to  her  hand. 

"Oh,  I  can't  leave  him  for  boys  to  torture  and  I  can't 
take  him,  I  can't — " 

In  a  sudden  spasm  she  threw  the  bird  into  the  air,  and 
ran  back  to  the  flat,  sobbing,  "I  can't  kill  it — I  can't — 
there's  so  much  death."  Longing  to  hear  the  quavering 
affection  of  its  song  once  more,  but  keeping  herself  from 
even  going  to  the  window  to  look  for  it,  with  bitter  haste 
she  completed  her  work  of  getting  rid  of  things — things — 
things — the  things  which  were  stones  of  an  imprisoning 
past. 

§4 

Shyness  was  over  Una  when  at  last  she  was  in  the  house 
of  strangers.  She  sat  marveling  that  this  square,  white 
cubby-hole  of  a  room  was  hers  permanently,  that  she 
hadn't  just  come  here  for  an  hour  or  two.  She  couldn't 
get  it  to  resemble  her  first  impression  of  it.  Now  the 
hallway  was  actually  a  part  of  her  life — every  morning 

[140] 


THE    JOB 

she  would  face  the  picture  of  a  magazine-cover  girl  when 
she  came  out  of  her  room. 

Her  agitation  was  increased  by  the  problem  of  keeping 
up  the  maiden  modesty  appropriate  to  a  Golden,  a  young 
female  friend  of  the  Sessionses',  in  a  small  flat  with  gentle 
men  lodgers  and  just  one  bathroom.  Una  was  saved  by 
not  having  a  spinster  friend  with  whom  to  share  her 
shrinking  modesty.  She  simply  had  to  take  waiting  for 
her  turn  at  the  bathroom  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  in 
sensibly  she  was  impressed  by  the  decency  with  which 
these  dull,  ordinary  people  solved  the  complexities  of  their 
enforced  intimacy.  When  she  wildly  clutched  her  virgin 
bathrobe  about  her  and  passed  a  man  in  the  hall,  he 
stalked  calmly  by  without  any  of  the  teetering  apologies 
which  broad-beamed  Mr.  Sessions  had  learned  from  his 
genteel  spouse. 

She  could  not  at  first  distinguish  among  her  compan 
ions.  Gradually  they  came  to  be  distinct,  important. 
They  held  numberless  surprises  for  her.  She  would  not 
have  supposed  that  a  bookkeeper  in  a  fish-market  would 
be  likely  to  possess  charm.  Particularly  if  he  combined 
that  amorphous  occupation  with  being  a  boarding-house 
proprietor.  Yet  her  landlord,  Herbert  Gray,  with  his 
look  of  a  track-athlete,  his  confessions  of  ignorance  and 
his  naive  enthusiasms  about  whatever  in  the  motion 
pictures  seemed  to  him  heroic,  large,  colorful,  was  as  ad 
mirable  as  the  several  youngsters  of  her  town  who  had 
plodded  through  Princeton  or  Pennsylvania  and  come 
back  to  practise  law  or  medicine  or  gentlemanly  inheri 
tance  of  business.  And  his  wife,  round  and  comely, 
laughing  easily,  wearing  her  clothes  with  an  untutored 
grace  which  made  her  cheap  waists  smart,  was  so  thor 
oughly  her  husband's  comrade  in  everything,  that  these 
struggling  nobodies  had  all  the  riches  of  the  earth. 


THE    JOB  , 

The  Grays  took  Una  in  as  though  she  were  their  guest, 
but  they  did  not  bother  her.  They  were  city-born, 
taught  by  the  city  to  let  other  people  live  their  own  lives. 

The  Grays  had  taken  a  flat  twice  too  large  for  their 
own  use.  The  other  lodgers,  who  lived,  like  monks  on  a 
bare  corridor,  along  the  narrow  "railroad"  hall,  were  three 
besides  Una: 

A  city  failure,  one  with  a  hundred  thousand  failures,  a 
gray-haired,  neat  man,  who  had  been  everything  and  done 
nothing,  and  who  now  said  evasively  that  he  was  "in  the 
collection  business."  He  read  Dickens  and  played  a  mas 
terful  game  of  chess.  He  liked  to  have  it  thought  that 
his  past  was  brave  with  mysterious  splendors.  He  spoke 
hintingly  of  great  lawyers.  But  he  had  been  near  to  them 
only  as  a  clerk  for  a  large  law  firm.  He  was  grateful  to 
any  one  for  noticing  him.  Like  most  of  the  failures,  he 
had  learned  the  art  of  doing  nothing  at  all.  All  Sunday, 
except  for  a  two  hours'  walk  in  Central  Park,  and  one 
game  of  chess  with  Herbert  Gray,  he  dawdled  in  his  room, 
slept,  regarded  his  stocking-feet  with  an  appearance  of 
profound  meditation,  yawned,  picked  at  the  Sunday  news 
paper.  Una  once  saw  him  napping  on  a  radiant  autumn 
Sunday  afternoon,  and  detested  him.  But  he  was  politely 
interested  in  her  work  for  Troy  Wilkins,  carefully  exact 
in  saying,  "Good-morning,  miss,"  and  he  became  as 
familiar  to  her  as  the  gas-heater  in  her  cubicle. 

Second  fellow-lodger  was  a  busy,  reserved  woman, 
originally  from  Kansas  City,  who  had  something  to  do 
with  some  branch  library.  She  had  solved  the  problems 
of  woman's  lack  of  place  in  this  city  scheme  by  closing 
tight  her  emotions,  her  sense  of  adventure,  her  hope 
of  friendship.  She  never  talked  to  Una,  after  discovering 
that  Una  had  no  interesting  opinions  on  the  best  reading 

for  children  nine  to  eleven. 

[1421 


THE   JOB 

These  gentle,  inconsequential  city  waifs,  the  Grays,  the 
failure,  the  library-woman,  meant  no  more  to  Una  than 
the  crowds  who  were  near,  yet  so  detached,  in  the  streets. 
But  the  remaining  boarder  annoyed  her  by  his  noisy 
whine.  He  was  an  underbred  maverick,  with  sharp  eyes 
of  watery  blue,  a  thin  mustache,  large  teeth,  and  no  chin 
worth  noticing.  He  would  bounce  in  of  an  evening,  when 
the  others  were  being  decorous  and  dull  in  the  musty 
dining-room,  and  yelp:  "How  do  we  all  find  our  seskpa- 
dalian  selves  this  bright  and  balmy  evenin'?  How  does 
your  perspegacity  discipulate,  Herby?  What's  the  good 
word,  Miss  Golden?  Well,  well,  well,  if  here  ain't  our 
good  old  friend,  the  Rev.  J.  Pilkington  Corned  Beef; 
how  Y  you,  Pilky?  Old  Mrs.  Cabbage  feelin'  well,  too? 
Well,  well,  still  discussing  the  movies,  Herby?  Got  any 
new  opinions  about  Mary  Pickford?  Well,  well.  Say,  I 
met  another  guy  that's  as  nutty  as  you,  Herby;  he  thinks 
that  Wilhelm  Jenkins  Bryan  is  a  great  statesman.  Let's 
hear  some  more  about  the  Sage  of  Free  Silver,  Herby." 

The  little  man  was  never  content  till  he  had  drawn 
them  into  so  bitter  an  argument  that  some  one  would 
rise,  throw  down  a  napkin,  growl,  "Well,  if  that's  all 
you  know  about  it — if  you're  all  as  ignorant  as  that, 
you  simply  ain't  worth  arguing  with,"  and  stalk  out. 
When  general  topics  failed,  the  disturber  would  catechize 
the  library-woman  about  Louisa  M.  Alcott,  or  the  failure 
about  his  desultory  inquiries  into  Christian  Science,  or 
Mrs.  Gray  about  the  pictures  plastering  the  dining-room 
— a  dozen  spiritual  revelations  of  apples  and  oranges, 
which  she  had  bought  at  a  department-store  sale. 

The  maverick's  name  was  Fillmore  J.  Benson.  Stran 
gers  called  him  Benny,  but  his  more  intimate  acquaint 
ances,  those  to  whom  he  had  talked  for  at  least  an  hour, 
were  requested  to  call  him  Phil.  He  made  a  number  of 

[1431 


THE   JOB 

pretty  puns  about  his  first  name.  He  was,  surprisingly, 
a  doctor — not  the  sort  that  studies  science,  but  the  sort 
that  studies  the  gullibility  of  human  nature — a  "Doctor 
of  Manipulative  Osteology."  He  had  earned  a  diploma 
by  a  correspondence  course,  and  had  scrabbled  together  a 
small  practice  among  retired  shopkeepers.  He  was  one  of 
the  strange,  impudent  race  of  fakers  who  prey  upon  the 
clever  city.  He  didn't  expect  any  one  at  the  Grays'  to 
call  him  a  "doctor." 

He  drank  whisky  and  gambled  for  pennies,  was  im 
moral  in  his  relations  with  women  and  as  thick-skinned 
as  he  was  blatant.  He  had  been  a  newsboy,  a  contractor's 
clerk,  and  climbed  up  by  the  application  of  his  wits.  He 
read  enormously — newspapers,  cheap  magazines,  medical 
books;  he  had  an  opinion  about  everything,  and  usually 
worsted  every  one  at  the  Grays'  in  arguments.  And  he 
did  his  patients  good  by  giving  them  sympathy  and 
massage.  He  would  have  been  an  excellent  citizen  had 
the  city  not  preferred  to  train  him,  as  a  child  in  its  reeling 
streets,  to  a  sharp  unscrupulousness. 

Una  was  at  first  disgusted  by  Phil  Benson,  then  per 
plexed.  He  would  address  her  in  stately  Shakespearean 
phrases  which,  as  a  boy,  he  had  heard  from  the  gallery 
of  the  Academy  of  Music.  He  would  quote  poetry  at  her. 
She  was  impressed  when  he  almost  silenced  the  library- 
woman,  in  an  argument  as  to  whether  Longfellow  or 
Whittier  was  the  better  poet,  by  parroting  the  whole  of 
"Snow  Bound." 

She  fancied  that  Phil's  general  pea-weevil  aspect  con 
cealed  the  soul  of  a  poet.  But  she  was  shocked  out  of 
her  pleasant  fabling  when  Phil  roared  at  Mrs.  Gray: 
"Say,  what  did  the  baker  use  this  pie  for?  A  bureau  or 
a  trunk?  I've  found  three  pairs  of  socks  and  a  safety-pin 

in  my  slab,  so  far." 

[144] 


THE   JOB 

Pretty  Mrs.  Gray  was  hurt  and  indignant,  while  herj 
husband  growled:   "Aw,  don't  pay  any  attention  to  that 
human  phonograph,  Amy.    He's  got  bats  in  his  belfry." 

Una  had  acquired  a  hesitating  fondness  for  the  mute 
gentleness  of  the  others,  and  it  infuriated  her  that  this 
insect  should  spoil  their  picnic.  But  after  dinner  Phil 
Benson  dallied  over  to  her,  sat  on  the  arm  of  her  chair, 
and  said:  "I'm  awfully  sorry  that  I  make  such  a  bum  hit 
with  you,  Miss  Golden.  Oh,  I  can  see  I  do,  all  right. 
You're  the  only  one  here  that  can  understand.  Somehow 
it  seems  to  me — you  aren't  like  other  women  I  know. 
There's  something — somehow  it's  different.  A — a  tem 
perament.  You  dream  about  higher  things  than  just  food 
and  clothes.  Oh,"  he  held  up  a  deprecating  hand, 
"don't  deny  it.  I'm  mighty  serious  about  it,  Miss 
Golden.  I  can  see  it,  even  if  you  haven't  waked  up  to 
it  as  yet." 

The  absurd  part  of  it  was  that,  at  least  while  he  was 
talking,  Mr.  Phil  Benson  did  believe  what  he  was  saying, 
though  he  had  borrowed  all  of  his  sentiments  from  a 
magazine  story  about  hobohemians  which  he  had  read 
the  night  before. 

He  also  spoke  of  reading  good  books,  seeing  good 
plays,  and  the  lack  of  good  influences  in  this  wicked  city. 

He  didn't  overdo  it.  He  took  leave  in  ten  minutes — 
to  find  good  influences  in  a  Kelly  pool-parlor  on  Third 
Avenue.  He  returned  to  his  room  at  ten,  and,  sitting  with 
his  shoeless  feet  cocked  up  on  his  bed,  read  a  story  in 
Racy  Yarns.  While  beyond  the  partition,  about  four 
feet  from  him,  Una  Golden  lay  in  bed,  her  smooth  arms 
behind  her  aching  head,  and  worried  about  Phil's  lack 
of  opportunity. 

She  was  finding  in  his  loud  impudence  a  twisted  re 
semblance  to  Walter  Babson's  erratic  excitability,  and 

[145] 


THE    JOB 

that  won  her,  for  love  goes  seeking  new  images  of  the  god 
that  is  dead. 

Next  evening  Phil  varied  his  tactics  by  coming  to  dinner 
early,  just  touching  Una's  hand  as  she  was  going  into  the 
dining-room,  and  murmuring  in  a  small  voice,  "I've  been 
thinking  so  much  of  the  helpful  things  you  said  last  eve 
ning,  Miss  Golden." 

Later,  Phil  talked  to  her  about  his  longing  to  be  a  great 
surgeon — in  which  he  had  the  tremendous  advantage  of 
being  almost  sincere.  He  walked  down  the  hall  to  her 
room,  and  said  good-night  lingeringly,  holding  her  hand. 

Una  went  into  her  room,  closed  the  door,  and  for  full 
five  minutes  stood  amazed.  "Why!"  she  gasped,  "the 
little  man  is  trying  to  make  love  to  me!" 

She  laughed  over  the  absurdity  of  it.  Heavens!  She 
had  her  Ideal.  The  Right  Man.  He  would  probably  be 
like  Walter  Babson — though  more  dependable.  But  what 
ever  the  nature  of  the  paragon,  he  would  in  every  respect 
be  just  the  opposite  of  the  creature  who  had  been  saying 
good-night  to  her. 

She  sat  down,  tried  to  read  the  paper,  tried  to  put  Phil 
out  of  her  mind.  But  he  kept  returning.  She  fancied  that 
she  could  hear  his  voice  in  the  hall.  She  dropped  the 
paper  to  listen. 

"I'm  actually  interested  in  him!"  she  marveled.  "Oh, 
that's  ridiculous!" 

§5 

Now  that  Walter  had  made  a  man's  presence  natural 
to  her,  Una  needed  a  man,  the  excitation  of  his  touch,  the 
solace  of  his  voice.  She  could  not  patiently  endure  a 
cloistered  vacuousness. 

Even  while  she  was  vigorously  representing  to  herself 
that  he  was  preposterous,  she  was  uneasily  aware  that 

[146] 


THE    JOB 

Phil  was  masculine.  His  talons  were  strong;  she  could 
feel  their  clutch  on  her  hands.  "He's  a  rat.  And  I  do 
wish  he  wouldn't — spit!"  she  shuddered.  But  under  her 
scorn  was  a  surge  of  emotion.  ...  A  man,  not  much  of  a 
man,  yet  a  man,  had  wanted  the  contact  of  her  hand, 
been  eager  to  be  with  her.  Sensations  vast  as  night  or 
the  ocean  whirled  in  her  small,  white  room.  Desire, 
and  curiosity  even  more,  made  her  restless  as  a  wave. 

She  caught  herself  speculating  as  she  plucked  at  the 
sleeve  of  her  black  mourning  waist:  "I  wonder  would  I 
be  more  interesting  if  I  had  the  orange-and-brown  dress 
I  was  going  to  make  when  mother  died?  .  .  .  Oh,  shame!" 

Yet  she  sprang  up  from  the  white-enameled  rocker, 
tucked  in  her  graceless  cotton  corset-cover,  stared  at  her 
image  in  the  mirror,  smoothed  her  neck  till  the  skin 
reddened. 

§6 

Phil  talked  to  her  for  an  hour  after  then-  Sunday-noon 
dinner.  She  had  been  to  church;  had  confessed  inde 
terminate  sins  to  a  formless  and  unresponsive  deity.  She 
felt  righteous,  and  showed  it.  Phil  caught  the  cue.  He 
sacrificed  all  the  witty  things  he  was  prepared  to  say 
about  Mrs.  Gray's  dumplings;  he  gazed  silently  out  of 
the  window  till  she  wondered  what  he  was  thinking  about, 
then  he  stumblingly  began  to  review  a  sermon  which  he 
said  he  had  heard  the  previous  Sunday — though  he  must 
have  been  mistaken,  as  he  shot  several  games  of  Kelly 
pool  every  Sunday  morning,  or  slept  till  noon. 

"The  preacher  spoke  of  woman's  influence.  You  don't 
know  what  it  is  to  lack  a  woman's  influence  in  a  fellow's 
life,  Miss  Golden.  I  can  see  the  awful  consequences 
among  my  patients.  I  tell  you,  when  I  sat  there  in  church 
and  saw  the  colored  wjndows— "  He  sighed  portentously. 

[147] 


THE   JOB 

His  hand  fell  across  hers — his  lean  paw,  strong  and  warm 
blooded  from  massaging  puffy  old  men.  "I  tell  you  I 
just  got  sentimental,  I  did,  thinking  of  all  I  lacked." 

Phil  melted  mournfully  away — to  indulge  in  a  highly 
cheerful  walk  on  upper  Broadway  with  Miss  Becky 
Rosenthal,  sewer  for  the  Sans  Peur  Pants  and  Overalls 
Company — while  in  her  room  Una  grieved  over  his  for 
lorn  desire  to  be  good. 

§7 

Two  evenings  later,  when  November  warmed  to  a 
passing  Indian  summer  of  golden  skies  that  were  pitifully 
far  away  from  the  little  folk  in  city  streets,  Una  was  so 
restless  that  she  set  off  for  a  walk  by  herself. 

Phil  had  been  silent,  glancing  at  her  and  away,  as 
though  he  were  embarrassed. 

"I  wish  I  could  do  something  to  help  him,"  she  thought* 
as  she  poked  down-stairs  to  the  entrance  of  the  apartment- 
house. 

Phil  was  on  the  steps,  smoking  a  cigarette-sized  cigar  > 
scratching  his  chin,  and  chattering  with  his  kinsmen,  the 
gutter  sparrows. 

He  doffed  his  derby.  He  spun  his  cigar  from  him  with  a 
deft  flip  of  his  fingers  which  somehow  agitated  her.  She 
called  herself  a  little  fool  for  being  agitated,  but  she 
couldn't  get  rid  of  the  thought  that  only  men  snapped 
their  fingers  like  that. 

"Goin'  to  the  movies,  Miss  Golden?" 

"No,  I  was  just  going  for  a  little  walk." 

"Well,  say,  walks,  that's  where  I  live.  Why  don't  you 
invite  Uncle  Phil  to  come  along  and  show  you  the  town? 
Why,  I  knew  this  burg  when  they  went  picnicking  at  the 
reservoir  in  Bryant  Park." 

He  swaggered  beside  her  without  an  invitation.     He 

[148] 


THE   JOB 

did  not  give  her  a  chance  to  decline  his  company — and 
soon  she  did  not  want  to.  He  led  her  down  to  Gramercy 
Park,  loveliest  memory  of  village  days,  houses  of  a  demure 
red  and  white  ringing  a  fenced  garden.  He  pointed  out 
to  her  the  Princeton  Club,  the  Columbia  Club,  the  Na 
tional  Arts,  and  the  Players',  and  declared  that  two  men 
leaving  the  last  were  John  Drew  and  the  most  famous 
editor  in  America.  He  guided  her  over  to  Stuyvesant 
Park,  a  barren  square  out  of  old  London,  with  a  Quaker 
school  on  one  side,  and  the  voluble  Ghetto  on  the  other. 
He  conducted  her  through  East  Side  streets,  where 
Jewish  lovers  parade  past  miles  of  push-carts  and  ven 
erable  Rabbis  read  the  Talmud  between  sales  of  cotton 
socks,  and  showed  her  a  little  cafe  which  was  a  hang-out 
for  thieves.  She  was  excited  by  this  contact  with  the 
underworld. 

He  took  her  to  a  Lithuanian  restaurant,  on  a  street 
which  was  a  debacle.  One  half  of  the  restaurant  was  filled 
with  shaggy  Lithuanians  playing  cards  at  filthy  tables; 
the  other  half  was  a  clean  haunt  for  tourists  who  came  to 
see  the  slums,  and  here,  in  the  heart  of  these  "slums,'* 
saw  only  one  another. 

"Wait  a  while,"  Phil  said,  "and  a  bunch  of  Seeing- 
New- Yorkers  will  land  here  and  think  we're  crooks." 

In  ten  minutes  a  van-load  of  sheepish  trippers  from  the 
Middle  West  filed  into  the  restaurant  and  tried  to  act  as 
though  they  were  used  to  cocktails.  Una  was  delighted 
when  she  saw  them  secretly  peering  at  Phil  and  herself; 
she  put  one  hand  on  her  thigh  and  one  on  the  table, 
leaned  forward  and  tried  to  look  tough,  while  Phil  pre 
tended  to  be  quarreling  with  her,  and  the  trippers'  simple 
souls  were  enthralled  by  this  glimpse  of  two  criminals. 
Una  really  enjoyed  the  acting;  for  a  moment  Phil  was  her 
companion  in  play;  and  when  the  trippers  had  gone 

[149] 


THE    JOB 

rustling  out  to  view  other  haunts  of  vice  she  smiled  at 
Phil  unrestrainedly. 

Instantly  he  took  advantage  of  her  smile,  of  their  com 
panionship. 

He  was  really  as  simple-hearted  as  the  trippers  in  his 
tactics. 

She  had  been  drinking  ginger-ale.  He  urged  her  now 
to  "have  a  real  drink."  He  muttered  confidentially: 
"Have  a  nip  of  sherry  or  a  New  Orleans  fizz  or  a  Bronx. 
That  '11  put  heart  into  you.  Not  enough  to  affect  you 
a-tall,  but  just  enough  to  cheer  up  on.  Then  we'll  go  to 
a  dance  and  really  have  a  time.  Gee!  poor  kid,  you  don't 
get  any  fun." 

"No,  no,  I  never  touch  it,"  she  said,  and  she  believed 
it,  forgetting  the  claret  she  had  drunk  with  Walter  Babson. 

She  felt  unsafe. 

He  laughed  at  her;  assured  her  from  his  medical  ex 
perience  that  "lots  of  women  need  a  little  tonic,"  and 
boisterously  ordered  a  glass  of  sherry  for  her. 

She  merely  sipped  it.  She  wanted  to  escape.  All  their 
momentary  frankness  of  association  was  gone.  She  feared 
him;  she  hated  the  complaisant  waiter  who  brought  her 
the  drink;  the  fat  proprietor  who  would  take  his  pieces  of 
silver,  though  they  were  the  price  of  her  soul;  the  police 
man  on  the  pavement,  who  would  never  think  of  protect 
ing  her;  and  the  whole  hideous  city  which  benignly 
profited  by  saloons.  She  watched  another  couple  down  at 
the  end  of  the  room — an  obese  man  and  a  young,  pretty 
girl,  who  was  hysterically  drunk.  Not  because  she  had 
attended  the  Women's  Christian  Temperance  Union  at 
Panama  and  heard  them  condemn  "the  demon  rum," 
but  because  the  sickish  smell  of  the  alcohol  was  all  about 
her  now,  she  suddenly  turned  into  a  crusader.  She  sprang 
up,  seized  her  gloves,  snapped,  "I  will  not  touch  the  stuff." 

[150] 


THE    JOB 

She  marched  down  the  room,  out  of  the  restaurant  and 
away,  not  once  looking  back  at  Phil. 

In  about  fifteen  seconds  she  had  a  humorous  picture  of 
Phil  trying  to  rush  after  her,  but  stopped  by  the  waiter 
to  pay  his  check.  She  began  to  wonder  if  she  hadn't  been 
slightly  ridiculous  in  attempting  to  slay  Demon  Rum  by 
careering  down  the  restaurant.  But  "I  don't  care!"  she 
said,  stoutly.  "I'm  glad  I  took  a  stand  instead  of  just 
rambling  along  and  wondering  what  it  was  all  about,  the 
way  I  did  with  Walter." 

Phil  caught  up  to  her  and  instantly  began  to  complain. 
"Say,  you  certainly  made  a  sight  out  of  yourself — and 
out  of  me — leaving  me  sitting  there  with  the  waiter  laugh 
ing  his  boob  head  off  at  me.  Lord!  I'll  never  dare  go  near 
the  place  again." 

"Your  own  fault."  This  problem  was  so  clear,  so  un- 
confused  to  her. 

"It  wasn't  all  my  fault,"  he  said.  "You  didn't  have  to 
take  a  drink."  His  voice  fell  to  a  pathetic  whimper.  "I 
was  showing  you  hospitality  the  best  way  I  knew  how. 
You  won't  never  know  how  you  hurt  my  feelin's." 

The  problem  instantly  became  complicated  again. 
Perhaps  she  had  hurt  his  rudimentary  sense  of  courtesy. 
Perhaps  Walter  Babson  would  have  sympathized  with 
Phil,  not  with  her.  She  peeped  at  Phil.  He  trailed  along 
with  a  forlorn  baby  look  which  did  not  change. 

She  was  very  uncomfortable  as  she  said  a  brief  good 
night  at  the  flat.  She  half  wished  that  he  would  give  her 
a  chance  to  recant.  She  saw  him  and  his  injured  feelings 
as  enormously  important. 

She  undressed  in  a  tremor  of  misgiving.  She  put  her 
thin,  pretty  kimono  over  her  nightgown,  braided  her  hair, 
and  curled  on  the  bed,  condemning  herself  for  having 
been  so  supercilious  to  the  rat  who  had  never  had  a  chance. 

[151] 


THE    JOB 

It  was  late — long  after  eleven — when  there  was  a  tap 
ping  on  the  door. 

She  started,  listened  rigidly. 

PhiPs  voice  whispered  from  the  hall:  "Open  your  dooi 
just  half  an  inch,  Miss  Golden.  Something  I  wanted  tc 
say." 

Her  pity  for  him  made  his  pleading  request  like  t 
command.  She  drew  her  kimono  close  and  peeped  out  a1 
him. 

"I  knew  you  were  up,"  he  whispered;  "saw  the  lighl 
under  your  door.  I  been  so  worried.  I  didn't  mean  tc 
shock  you,  or  nothing,  but  if  you  feel  I  did  mean  to,  ] 
want  to  apologize.  Gee!  me,  I  couldn't  sleep  one  winl 
if  I  thought  you  was  offended." 

"It's  all  right—"  she  began. 

"Say,  come  into  the  dining-room.  Everybody  gone  tc 
bed.  I  want  to  explain — gee !  you  gotta  give  nie  a  chance 
to  be  good.  If  you  don't  use  no  good  influence  over  me 
nobody  never  will,  I  guess." 

His  whisper  was  full  of  masculine  urgency,  husky,  bold 
She  shivered.  She  hesitated,  did  not  answer. 

"All  right,"  he  mourned.  "I  don't  blame  you  none 
but  it's  pretty  hard — " 

"I'll  come  just  for  a  moment,"  she  said,  and  shut  th< 
door. 

She  was  excited,  flushed.  She  wrapped  her  braids 
around  her  head,  gentle  braids  of  pale  gold,  and  her  un 
distinguished  face,  thus  framed,  was  young  and  sweet. 

She  hastened  out  to  the  dining-room. 

What  was  the  "parlor"  by  day  the  Grays  used  foi 
their  own  bedroom,  but  the  dining-room  had  a  big,  ugly, 
leather  settee  and  two  rockers,  and  it  served  as  a  secondary 
living-room. 

Here  Phil  waited,  at  the  end  of  the  settee.    She  headed 

f.1521 


THE    JOB 

for  a  rocker,  but  he  piled  sofa-cushions  for  her  at  the  other 
end  of  the  settee,  and  she  obediently  sank  down  there. 

"Listen,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  lofty  lamentation,  "I 
don't  know  as  I  can  ever,  ever  make  you  understand  I 
just  wanted  to  give  you  a  good  time.  I  seen  you  was  in 
mourning,  and  I  thinks,  ' Maybe  you  could  brighten  her 
up  a  little— 

"I  am  sorry  I  didn't  understand." 

"Una,  Una!  Do  you  suppose  you  could  ever  stoop  to 
helping  a  bad  egg  like  me?"  he  demanded. 

His  hand  fell  on  hers.  It  comforted  her  chilly  hand. 
She  let  it  lie  there.  Speech  became  difficult  for  her. 

"Why,  why  yes — "  she  stammered. 

In  reaction  to  her  scorn  of  him,  she  was  all  accepting 
faith. 

"Oh,  if  you  could — and  if  I  could  make  you  less  lonely 
sometimes — " 

In  his  voice  was  a  perilous  tenderness;  for  the  rat, 
trained  to  beguile  neurotic  patients  in  his  absurd  practice, 
could  croon  like  the  very  mother  of  pity. 

"Yes,  I  am  lonely  sometimes,"  she  heard  herself  ad 
mitting — far-off,  dreaming,  needing  the  close  affection 
that  her  mother  and  Walter  had  once  given  her. 

"Poor  little  girl — you're  so  much  better  raised  and 
educated  than  me,  but  you  got  to  have  friendship  jus' 
same." 

His  arm  was  about  her  shoulder.  For  a  second  she 
leaned  against  him. 

All  her  scorn  of  him  suddenly  gathered  in  one  impulse. 
She  sprang  up — just  in  time  to  catch  a  grin  on  his  face. 

"You  gutter-rat!"  she  said.  "You  aren't  worth  my 
telling  you  what  you  are.  You  wouldn't  understand. 
You  can't  see  anything  but  the  gutter." 

He  was  perfectly  unperturbed:  "Poor  stuff,  kid.    Weak 

11  11531 


THE    JOB 

come-back.  Sounds  like  a  drayma.  But,  say,  listen, 
honest,  kid,  you  got  me  wrong.  What's  the  harm  in  a 
little  hugging — " 

She  fled.  She  was  safe  in  her  room.  She  stood  with 
both  arms  outstretched.  She  did  not  feel  soiled  by  this 
dirty  thing.  She  was  triumphant.  In  the  silhouette  of 
a  water-tank,  atop  the  next-door  apartment-house,  she 
saw  a  strong  tower  of  faith. 

"Now  I  don't  have  to  worry  about  him.  I  don't  have 
to  make  any  more  decisions.  I  know!  I'm  through!  No 
one  can  get  me  just  because  of  curiosity  about  sex  again. 
I'm  free.  I  can  fight  my  way  through  in  business  and  still 
keep  clean.  I  can!  I  was  hungry  for — for  even  that  rat. 
I — Una  Golden!  Yes,  I  was.  But  I  don't  want  to  go 
back  to  him.  I've  won! 

"Oh,  Walter,  Walter,  I  do  want  you,  dear,  but  I'll  get 
along  without  you,  and  I'll  keep  a  little  sacred  image  of 
you." 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  three-fourths  of  Una  employed  in  the  office  of 
Mr.  Troy  Wilkins  was  going  through  one  of  those 
periods  of  unchanging  routine  when  all  past  drama  seems 
unreal,  when  nothing  novel  happens  nor  apparently  ever 
will  happen — such  a  time  of  dull  peacefulness  as  makes  up 
the  major  part  of  our  lives. 

Her  only  definite  impressions  were  the  details  of  daily 
work,  the  physical  aspects  of  the  office,  and  the  presence 
of  the  "Boss." 

§2 

Day  after  day  the  same  details  of  the  job:  letters 
arriving,  assorted,  opened,  answered  by  dictation,  the 
answers  sealed  and  stamped  (and  almost  every  day  the 
same  panting  crisis  of  getting  off  some  cosmically  im 
portant  letter).  .  .  .  The  reception  of  callers;  welcome  to 
clients;  considerate  but  firm  assurances  to  persons  looking 
for  positions  that  there  was  "no  opening  just  at  present — 
The  suave  answering  of  irritating  telephone  calls.  .  .  .  The 
filing  of  letters  and  plans;  the  clipping  of  real-estate- 
transfer  items  from  newspapers.  .  .  .  The  supervision  of 
Bessie  Kraker  and  the  office-boy. 

Equally  fixed  were  the  details  of  the  grubby  office  it 
self.  Like  many  men  who  have  pride  in  the  smartest 
suburban  homes  available,  Mr.  Wilkins  was  content  with 

[155] 


THE    JOB 

an  office  shabby  and  inconvenient.  He  regarded  beauti 
ful  offices  as  in  some  way  effeminate.  .  .  .  His  wasn't 
effeminate;  it  was  undecorative  as  a  filled  ash-tray, 
despite  Una's  daily  following  up  of  the  careless  scrub 
women  with  dust-cloth  and  whisk.  She  knew  every  inch 
of  it,  as  a  gardener  knows  his  plot.  She  could  never  keep 
from  noticing  and  running  her  finger  along  the  pebbled 
glass  of  the  oak-and-glass  partition  about  Mr.  Wilkins's 
private  office,  each  of  the  hundreds  of  times  a  day  she 
passed  it;  and  when  she  lay  awake  at  midnight,  her 
finger-tips  would  recall  precisely  the  feeling  of  that  rough 
surface,  even  to  the  sharp  edges  of  a  tiny  flaw  in  the  glass 
over  the  bookcase. 

Or  she  would  recall  the  floor-rag — symbol  of  the  hard 
realness  of  the  office  grind.  .  . . 

It  always  hung  over  the  twisted,  bulbous  lead  pipes 
below  the  stationary  basin  in  the  women's  wash-room 
provided  by  the  Septimus  Building  for  the  women  on 
three  floors.  It  was  a  rag  ancient  and  slate-gray,  gro 
tesquely  stiff  and  grotesquely  hairy  at  its  frayed  edges — a 
corpse  of  a  scrub-rag  in  rigor  mortis.  Una  was  annoyed 
with  herself  for  ever  observing  so  unlovely  an  object,  but 
in  the  moment  of  relaxation  when  she  went  to  wash  her 
hands  she  was  unduly  sensitive  to  that  eternal  rag,  and 
to  the  griminess  of  the  wash-room — the  cracked  and 
yellow-stained  wash-bowl,  the  cold  water  that  stung  in 
winter,  the  roller-towel  which  she  spun  round  and  round 
in  the  effort  to  find  a  dry,  clean,  square  space,  till,  in  a 
spasm  of  revulsion,  she  would  bolt  out  of  the  wash-room 
with  her  face  and  hands  half  dried. 

Woman's  place  is  in  the  home.  Una  was  doubtless  pure 
ly  perverse  in  competing  with  men  for  the  commercial 
triumphs  of  running  that  gray,  wet  towel  round  and  round 

on  its  clattering  roller,  and  of  wondering  whether  for  the 

[156] 


THE    JOB 

entire  remainder  of  her  life  she  would  see  that  dead  scrub- 
rag. 

It  was  no  less  annoying  a  fact  that  Bessie  and  she  had 
only  one  waste-basket,  which  was  invariably  at  Bessie's 
desk  when  Una  reached  for  it. 

Or  that  the  door  of  the  supply-cupboard  always  shiv 
ered  and  stuck. 

Or  that  on  Thursday,  which  is  the  three  P.M.  of  the 
week,  it  seemed  impossible  to  endure  the  tedium  till 
Saturday  noon;  and  that,  invariably,  her  money  was 
gone  by  Friday,  so  that  Friday  lunch  was  always  a 
mere  insult  to  her  hunger,  and  she  could  never  get 
her  gloves  from  the  cleaner  till  after  Saturday  pay 
day. 

Una  knew  the  office  to  a  point  where  it  offered  few  beau 
tiful  surprises. 

And  she  knew  the  tactics  of  Mr.  Troy  Wilkins. 

All  managers — " bosses" — "chiefs" — have  tactics  for 
keeping  discipline;  tricks  which  they  conceive  as  pro 
foundly  hidden  from  their  underlings,  and  which  are  in 
timately  known  and  discussed  by  those  underlings.  .  .  . 
There  are  the  bosses  who  "bluff,"  those  who  lie,  those  who 
give  good-fellowship  or  grave  courtesy  in  lieu  of  wages. 
None  of  these  was  Mr.  Wilkins.  He  was  dully  honest 
and  clumsily  paternal.  But  he  was  a  roarer,  a  grumbler; 
he  bawled  and  ordained,  in  order  to  encourage  industry 
and  keep  his  lambs  from  asking  for  "raises."  Thus  also 
he  tried  to  conceal  his  own  mistakes;  when  a  missing 
letter  for  which  everybody  had  been  anxiously  searching 
was  found  on  his  own  desk,  instead  of  in  the  files,  he  would 
blare,  "Well,  why  didn't  you  tell  me  you  put  it  on  my 
desk,  heh?"  He  was  a  delayer  also  and,  in  poker  patois,  a 
passer  of  the  buck.  He  would  feebly  hold  up  a  decision 
for  weeks,  then  make  a  whole  campaign  of  getting  his 

[157] 


THE   JOB 

office  to  rush  through  the  task  in  order  to  catch  up;  have 
a  form  of  masculine-commuter  hysterics  because  Una  and 
Bessie  didn't  do  the  typing  in  a  miraculously  short  time. 
.  .  .  He  never  cursed;  he  was  an  ecclesiastical  believer 
that  one  of  the  chief  aims  of  man  is  to  keep  from  saying 
those  mystic  words  "hell"  and  "damn";  but  he  could 
make  "darn  it"  and  "why  in  tunket"  sound  as  profane  as 
a  gambling-den.  .  .  .  There  was  included  in  Una's  duties 
the  pretense  of  believing  that  Mr.  Wilkins  was  the  greatest 
single-handed  villa  architect  in  Greater  New  York.  Some 
times  it  nauseated  her.  But  often  he  was  rather  pathetic 
in  his  shaky  desire  to  go  on  having  faith  in  his  super 
seded  ability,  and  she  would  willingly  assure  him  that  his 
rivals,  the  boisterous  young  firm  of  Soule,  Smith  &  Fiss- 
leben,  were  frauds. 

All  these  faults  and  devices  of  Mr.  Troy  Wilkins  Una 
knew.  Doubtless  he  would  have  been  astonished  to 
hear  that  fact,  on  evenings  in  his  plate-racked,  much- 
raftered,  highly  built-in  suburban  dining-room,  when 
he  discoursed  to  the  admiring  Mrs.  Wilkins  and  the 
mouse-like  little  Wilkinses  on  the  art  of  office  discipline; 
or  mornings  in  the  second  smoker  of  the  8.16  train, 
when  he  told  the  other  lords  of  the  world  that  "these 
stenographers  are  all  alike — you  simply  can't  get  'em 
to  learn  system." 

It  is  not  recorded  whether  Mr.  Wilkins  also  knew  Una's 
faults — her  habit  of  falling  a-dreaming  at  3.30  and  trying 
to  make  it  up  by  working  furiously  at  4.30;  her  habit  of 
awing  the  good-hearted  Bessie  Kraker  by  posing  as  a 
nun  who  had  never  been  kissed  nor  ever  wanted  to  be; 
her  graft  of  sending  the  office-boy  out  for  ten-cent  boxes 
of  cocoanut  candy;  and  a  certain  resentful  touchiness  and 
ladylikeness  which  made  it  hard  to  give  her  necessary 
•orders.  Mr.  Wilkins  has  never  given  testimony,  but  he 

L158] 


THE    JOB 

is  not  the  villain  of  the  tale,  and  some  authorities  have 
a  suspicion  that  he  did  not  find  Una  altogether  perfect. 

§3 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  Una  or  her  million  sisters 
in  business  were  constantly  and  actively  bored  by  office 
routine. 

Save  once  or  twice  a  week,  when  he  roared,  and  once 
or  twice  a  month,  when  she  felt  that  thirteen  dollars  a 
week  was  too  little,  she  rather  liked  Mr.  Wilkins — his 
honesty,  his  desire  to  make  comfortable  homes  for  people, 
his  cheerful  "Good-morning!"  his  way  of  interrupting 
dictation  to  tell  her  antiquated  but  jolly  stories,  his  stolid, 
dependable-looking  face. 

She  had  real  satisfaction  in  the  game  of  work — in 
winning  points  and  tricks — in  doing  her  work  briskly  and 
well,  in  helping  Mr.  Wilkins  to  capture  clients.  She  was 
eager  when  she  popped  in  to  announce  to  him  that  a  wary, 
long-pursued  "prospect"  had  actually  called.  She  was 
rather  more  interested  in  her  day's  work  than  are  the 
average  of  meaningless  humanity  who  sell  gingham  and 
teach  algebra  and  cure  boils  and  repair  lawn-mowers, 
.  because  she  was  daily  more  able  to  approximate  perfec 
tion,  to  look  forward  to  something  better — to  some  splen 
did  position  at  twenty  or  even  twenty-five  dollars  a  week. 
She  was  certainly  in  no  worse  plight  than  perhaps  ninety- 
five  million  of  her  free  and  notoriously  red-blooded  fellow- 
citizens. 

But  she  was  in  no  better  plight.  There  was  no  drama, 
no  glory  in  affection,  nor,  so  long  as  she  should  be  tied  to 
Troy  Wilkins's  dwindling  business,  no  immediate  increase 
in  power.  And  the  sameness,  the  unceasing  discussions 

with  Bessie  regarding  Mr.  Wilkins — Mr.  Wilkins's  hat, 

[159] 


THE    JOB 

Mr.  Wilkins's  latest  command,  Mr.  Wilkins's  lost  fountain- 
pen,  Mr.  Wilkins's  rudeness  to  the  salesman  for  the  Sky 
line  Roofing  Company,  Mr.  Wilkins's  idiotic  friendship 
for  Muldoon,  the  contractor,  Mr.  Wilkins's  pronounced 
unfairness  to  the  office-boy  in  regard  to  a  certain  lateness 
in  arrival — 

At  best,  Una  got  through  day  after  day;  at  worst,  she 
was  as  profoundly  bored  as  an  explorer  in  the  arctic  night. 

§4 

Una,  the  initiate  New-Yorker,  continued  her  study  of 
city  ways  and  city  currents  during  her  lunch-hours.  She 
went  down  to  Broad  Street  to  see  the  curb  market;  mar 
veled  at  the  men  with  telephones  in  little  coops  behind 
opened  windows;  stared  at  the  great  newspaper  offices  on 
Park  Row,  the  old  City  Hall,  the  mingling  on  lower 
Broadway  of  sky-challenging  buildings  with  the  history 
of  pre-Revolutionary  days.  She  got  a  momentary  preju 
dice  in  favor  of  socialism  from  listening  to  an  attack  upon 
it  by  a  noon-time  orator — a  spotted,  badly  dressed  man 
whose  favorite  slur  regarding  socialists  was  that  they  were 
spotted  and  badly  dressed.  She  heard  a  negro  shouting 
dithyrambics  about  some  religion  she  could  never  make 
out. 

Sometimes  she  lunched  at  a  newspaper-covered  desk, 
with  Bessie  and  the  office-boy,  on  cold  ham  and  beans  and 
small,  bright-colored  cakes  which  the  boy  brought  in  from 
a  bakery.  Sometimes  she  had  boiled  eggs  and  cocoa  at  a 
Childs  restaurant  with  stenographers  who  ate  baked 
apples,  rich  Napoleons,  and,  always,  coffee.  Sometimes  at 
a  cafeteria,  carrying  a  tray,  she  helped  herself  to  crackers 
and  milk  and  sandwiches.  Sometimes  at  the  Arden  Tea 
Room,  for  women  only,  she  encountered  charity-workers 

[160] 


THE    JOB 

and  virulently  curious  literary  ladies,  whom  she  endured 
for  the  marked  excellence  of  the  Arden  chicken  croquettes. 
Sometimes  Bessie  tempted  her  to  a  Chinese  restaurant, 
where  Bessie,  who  came  from  the  East  Side  and  knew  a 
trick  or  two,  did  not  order  chop-suey,  like  a  tourist,  but 
noodles  and  eggs  foo-young. 

fin  any  case,  the  lunch-hour  and  the  catalogue  of  what 
she  was  so  vulgar  as  to  eat  were  of  importance  in  Una's 
history,  because  that  hour  broke  the  routine,  gave  her 
for  an  hour  a  deceptive  freedom  of  will,  of  choice  between 
Boston  beans  and — New  York  beans.  And  her  triumph 
ant  common  sense  was  demonstrated,  for  she  chose  light, 
digestible  food,  and  kept  her  head  clear  for  the  afternoon, 
while  her  overlord,  Mr.  Troy  Wilkins,  like  vast  numbers  of 
his  fellow  business  men,  crammed  himself  with  beefsteak- 
and-kidney  pudding,  drugged  himself  with  cigar  smoke 
and  pots  of  strong  coffee  and  shop-talk,  spoke  earnestly 
of  the  wickedness  of  drunkenness,  and  then,  drunk  with 
food  and  tobacco  and  coffee  and  talk,  came  back  dizzy, 
blur-eyed,  slow-nerved;  and  for  two  hours  tried  to  get 
down  to  work. 

After  hours  of  trudging  through  routine,  Una  went 
home. 

She  took  the  Elevated  now  instead  of  the  Subway. 
That  was  important  in  her  life.  It  meant  an  entire  change 
of  scenery. 

On  the  Elevated,  beside  her  all  evening,  hovering  over 
her  bed  at  night,  was  Worry. 

"Oh,  I  ought  to  have  got  all  that  Norris  correspondence 
copied  to-day.  I  must  get  at  it  first  thing  in  the  morning. 
...  I  wonder  if  Mr.  Wilkins  was  sore  because  I  stayed  out 
so  long  for  lunch?  .  .  .  What  would  I  do  if  I  were  fired?" 

So  would  she  worry  as  she  left  the  office.  In  the  evening 
she  wouldn't  so  much  criticize  herself  as  suddenly  and 

[161] 


THE    JOB 

without  reason  remember  office  settings  and  incidents 
— startle  at  a  picture  of  the  T-square  at  which  she  had 
stared  while  Mr.  Wilkins  was  telephoning.  .  .  .  She  wasn't 
weary  because  she  worried;  she  worried  because  she  was 
weary  from  the  airless,  unnatural,  straining  life.  She 
worried  about  everything  available,  from  her  soul  to  her 
finger-nails;  but  the  office  offered  the  largest  number  of 
good  opportunities. 

"After  all,"  say  the  syndicated  philosophers,  "the  office 
takes  only  eight  or  nine  hours  a  day.  The  other  fifteen  or 
sixteen,  you  are  free  to  do  as  you  wish — loaf,  study,  be 
come  an  athlete."  This  illuminative  suggestion  is  usually 
reinforced  by  allusions  to  Lincoln  and  Edison. 

Only — you  aren't  a  Lincoln  or  an  Edison,  for  the  most 
part,  and  you  don't  do  any  of  those  improving  things. 
You  have  the  office  with  you,  in  you,  every  hour  of  the 
twenty-four,  unless  you  sleep  dreamlessly  and  forget — 
which  you  don't.  Probably,  like  Una,  you  do  not  take 
any  exercise  to  drive  work-thoughts  away. 

She  often  planned  to  take  exercise  regularly;  read  of  it 
in  women's  magazines.  But  she  could  never  get  herself 
to  keep  up  the  earnest  clowning  of  bedroom  calisthenics; 
gymnasiums  were  either  reekingly  crowded  or  too  ex 
pensive — and  even  to  think  of  undressing  and  dressing 
for  a  gymnasium  demanded  more  initiative  than  was  left 
in  her  fagged  organism.  There  was  walking — but  city 
streets  become  tiresomely  familiar.  Of  sports  she  was 
consistently  ignorant. 

So  all  the  week  she  was  in  the  smell  and  sound  of  the 
battle,  until  Saturday  evening  with  its  blessed  rest — the 
clean,  relaxed  time  which  every  woman  on  the  job  knows. 

Saturday  evening!  No  work  to-morrow!  A  prospect 
of  thirty-six  hours  of  freedom.  A  leisurely  dinner,  a 
languorous  slowness  in  undressing,  a  hot  bath,  a  clean 

[162] 


THE   JOB 

nightgown,  and  fresh,  smooth  bed-linen.  Una  went  to 
bed  early  to  enjoy  the  contemplation  of  these  luxuries. 
She  even  put  on  a  lace  bed-cap  adorned  with  pink  silk 
roses.  The  pleasure  of  relaxing  in  bed,  of  looking  lazily 
at  the  pictures  in  a  new  magazine,  of  drifting  into  slumber 
— not  of  stepping  into  a  necessary  sleep  that  was  only  the 
'  anteroom  of  another  day's  labor.  .  .  . 

Such  was  her  greatest  joy  in  this  period  of  unevent- 
fulness. 

§5 

Una  was,  she  hoped,  "trying  to  think  about  things." 
Naturally,  one  who  used  that  boarding-house  phrase 
could  not  think  transformingly. 

She  wasn't  illuminative  about  Romain  Holland  or 
Rodin  or  village  welfare.  She  was  still  trying  to  decide 
whether  the  suffrage  movement  was  ladylike  and  whether 
Dickens  or  Thackeray  was  the  better  novelist.  But  she 
really  was  trying  to  decide. 

She  compiled  little  lists  of  books  to  read,  "movements" 
to  investigate.  She  made  a  somewhat  incoherent  written 
statement  of  what  she  was  trying  to  do,  and  this  she  kept 
in  her  top  bureau  drawer,  among  the  ribbons,  collars,  imi 
tation  pearl  necklaces,  handkerchiefs,  letters  from  Walter, 
and  photographs  of  Panama  and  her  mother. 

She  took  it  out  sometimes,  and  relieved  the  day's  ac 
cumulated  suffering  by  adding  such  notes  as: 

"Be  nice  &  human  w.  employes  if  ever  have  any  of 
own;  office  wretched  hole  anyway  bee.  of  econ.  system; 
W.  used  to  say,  why  make  worse  by  being  cranky." 

Or: 

"Study  music,  it  brings  country  and  W.  and  poetry 
and  everything;  take  piano  les.  when  get  time." 

So  Una  tramped,  weary  always  at  dusk,  but  always  re- 

[163] 


THE    JOB 

created  at  dawn,  through  one  of  those  periods  of  timeless, 
unmarked  months,  when  all  drama  seems  past  and  un 
real  and  apparently  nothing  will  ever  happen  again. 

Then,  in  one  week,  everything  became  startling — she 
found  melodrama  and  a  place  of  friendship. 


CHAPTER  XI 

"  T  'M  tirecj  of  the  Grays.    They're  very  nice  people,  but 

A  they  can't  talk,"  said  Una  to  Bessie  Kraker,  at  lunch 
in  the-  office,  on  a  February  day. 

"How  do  yuh  mean  'can't  talk?  Are  they  dummies?" 
inquired  Bessie. 

"Dummies?" 

"Yuh,  sure,  deef  and  dumb." 

"Why,  no,  I  mean  they  don't  talk  my  language — they 
don't,  oh,  they  don't,  I  suppose  you'd  say  'conversation- 
alize.'  Do  you  see?" 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Bessie,  doubtfully.  "Say,  listen,  Miss 
Golden.  Say,  I  don't  want  to  butt  in,  and  maybe  you 
wouldn't  be  stuck  on  it  much,  but  they  say  it's  a  dead- 
swell  place  to  live — Miss  Kitson,  the  boss's  secretary 
where  I  was  before,  lived  there — " 

"Say,  for  the  love  o'  Mike,  say  it:  Where?"  interrupted 
the  office-boy. 

"You  shut  your  nasty  trap.  I  was  just  coming  to  it. 
The  Temperance  and  Protection  Home,  on  Madison 
Avenue  just  above  Thirty-fourth.  They  say  it's  kind  of 
strict,  but,  gee!  there's  a'  ausgezeichnet  bunch  of  dames 
there,  artists  and  everything,  and  they  say  they  feed  you 
swell,  and  it  only  costs  eight  bucks  a  week." 

"Well,  maybe  I'll  look  at  it,"  said  Una,  dubiously. 

Neither  the  forbidding  name  nor  Bessie's  moral  recomv 
mendation  made  the  Home  for  Girls  sound  tempting,  but 

[165] 


THE    JOB 

Una  was  hungry  for  companionship;  she  was  cold  now 
toward  the  unvarying,  unimaginative  desires  of  men. 
Among  the  women  "artists  and  everything"  she  might 
find  the  friends  she  needed. 

The  Temperance  and  Protection  Home  Club  for  Girls 
was  in  a  solemn,  five-story,  white  sandstone  structure 
with  a  severe  doorway  of  iron  grill,  solid  and  capable- 
looking  as  a  national  bank.  Una  rang  the  bell  diffidently. 
She  waited  in  a  hall  that,  despite  its  mission  settee  and 
red-tiled  floor,  was  barrenly  clean  as  a  convent.  She  was 
admitted  to  the  business-like  office  of  Mrs.  Harriet  Fike, 
the  matron  of  the  Home. 

Mrs.  Fike  had  a  brown,  stringy  neck  and  tan  bangs. 
She  wore  a  mannish  coat  and  skirt,  flat  shoes  of  the  kind 
called  "  sensible  "  by  everybody  except  pretty  women,  and 
a  large  silver-mounted  crucifix. 

"Well?"  she  snarled. 

"Some  one —  I'd  like  to  find  out  about  coming  here  to 
live — to  see  the  place,  and  so  on.  Can  you  have  somebody 
show  me  one  of  the  rooms?" 

"My  dear  young  lady,  the  first  consideration  isn't  to 
'have  somebody  show  you'  or  anybody  else  a  room,  but 
to  ascertain  if  you  are  a  fit  person  to  come  here." 

Mrs.  Fike  jabbed  at  a  compartment  of  her  desk,  yanked 
out  a  corduroy-bound  book,  boxed  its  ears,  slammed  it 
open,  glared  at  Una  in  a  Christian  and  Homelike  way, 
and  began  to  shoot  questions: 

"Whatcha  name?" 

"Una  Golden." 

"Miss  uh  Miss?" 

"I  didn't  quite—" 

"Miss  or  Mrs.,  I  said.    Can't  you  understand  English?" 

"See  here,  I'm  not  being  sent  to  jail  that  I  know  of!" 
Una  rose,  tremblingly. 

[166] 


THE    JOB 

Mrs.  Fike  merely  waited  and  snapped:  "Sit  down. 
You  look  as  though  you  had  enough  sense  to  understand 
that  we  can't  let  people  we  don't  know  anything  about 
enter  a  decent  place  like  this.  .  .  .  Miss  or  Mrs.,  I 
said?" 

"Miss,"  Una  murmured,  feebly  sitting  down  again. 

"What's  your  denomination?  .  .  .  No  agnostics  or 
Catholics  allowed!" 

Una  heard  herself  meekly  declaring,  "Methodist." 

"Smoke?    Swear?    Drink  liquor?    Got  any  bad  habits?" 

"No!" 

"Got  a  lover,  sweetheart,  gentleman  friend?  If  so, 
what  name  or  names?" 

"No." 

"That's  what  they  all  say.  Let  me  tell  you  that  later, 
when  you  expect  to  have  all  these  male  cousins  visit  you, 
we'll  reserve  the  privilege  to  ask  questions.  .  .  .  Ever 
served  a  jail  sentence?" 

"Now  really— !    Do  I  look  it?" 

"My  dear  miss,  wouldn't  you  feel  foolish  if  I  said  'yes'? 
"Have  you?  I  warn  you  we  look  these  things  up!" 

"No,  I  have  not." 

"Well,  that's  comforting Age?" 

"Twenty-six." 

"Parents  living?  Name  nearest  relatives?  Nearest 
friends?  Present  occupation?" 

Even  as  she  answered  this  last  simple  question  and  Mrs. 
Fike's  suspicious  query  about  her  salary,  Una  felt  as 
though  she  were  perjuring  herself,  as  though  there  were 
no  such  place  as  Troy  Wilkins's  office — and  Mrs.  Fike 
knew  it;  as  though  a  large  policeman  were  secreted  behind 
the  desk  and  would  at  any  moment  pop  out  and  drag 
her  off  to  jail.  She  answered  with  tremorous  carefulness. 
By  now,  the  one  thing  that  she  wanted  to  do  was  to  escape 

[167] 


THE    JOB 

from  that  Christian  and  strictly  supervised  Napoleon, 
Mrs.  Fike,  and  flee  back  to  the  Grays. 

"Previous  history?"  Mrs.  Fike  was  grimly  continuing, 
and  she  followed  this  question  by  ascertaining  Una's  am 
bitions,  health,  record  for  insanity,  and  references. 

Mrs.  Fike  closed  the  query-book,  and  observed: 

"Well,  you  are  rather  fresh,  but  you  seem  to  be  ac 
ceptable — and  now  you  may  look  us  over  and  see  whether 
we  are  acceptable  to  you.  Don't  think  for  one  moment 
that  this  institution  needs  you,  or  is  trying  to  lift  you  out 
of  a  life  of  sin,  or  that  we  suppose  this  to  be  the  only 
place  in  New  York  to  live.  We  know  what  we  want — • 
we  run  things  on  a  scientific  basis — but  we  aren't  so  con 
ceited  as  to  think  that  everybody  likes  us.  Now,  for 
example,  I  can  see  that  you  don't  like  me  and  my  ways 
one  bit.  But  Lord  love  you,  that  isn't  necessary.  The 
one  thing  necessary  is  for  me  to  run  this  Home  according 
to  the  book,  and  if  you're  fool  enough  to  prefer  a  slap 
dash  boarding-house  to  this  hygienic  Home,  why,  you'll 
make  your  bed — or  rather  some  slattern  of  a  landlady 
will  make  it — and  you  can  lie  in  it.  Come  with  me.  No; 
first  read  the  rules." 

Una  obediently  read  that  the  young  ladies  of  the 
Temperance  Home  were  forbidden  to  smoke,  make  loud 
noises,  cook,  or  do  laundry  in  their  rooms,  sit  up  after 
midnight,  entertain  visitors  "of  any  sort  except  mothers 
and  sisters"  in  any  place  in  the  Home,  "except  in  the 
parlors  for  that  purpose  provided."  They  were  not  per 
mitted  to  be  out  after  ten  unless  their  names  were  specifi 
cally  entered  in  the  "Out-late  Book"  before  then*  going. 
And  they  were  "requested  to  answer  all  reasonable  ques 
tions  of  matron,  or  board  of  visitors,  or  duly  qualified 
inspectors,  regarding  moral,  mental,  physical,  and  com 
mercial  well-being  and  progress." 

[168] 


THE   JOB 

Una  couldn't  resist  asking,  "I  suppose  it  isn't  forbidden 
to  sleep  in  our  rooms,  is  it?" 

Mrs.  Fike  looked  over  her,  through  her,  about  her,  and 
remarked:  "I'd  advise  you  to  drop  all  impudence.  You 
see,  you  don't  do  it  well.  We  admit  East  Side  Jews  here 
and  they  are  so  much  quicker  and  wittier  than  you  country 
girls  from  Pennsylvania  and  Oklahoma,  and  Heaven  knows 
where,  that  you  might  just  as  well  give  up  and  try  to  be 
ladies  instead  of  humorists.  Come,  we  will  take  a  look  at 
the  Home." 

By  now  Una  was  resolved  not  to  let  Mrs.  Mke  drive 
her  away.  She  would  "show  her";  she  would  "come  and 
live  here  just  for  spite." 

What  Mrs.  Fike  thought  has  not  been  handed  down. 

She  led  Una  past  a  series  of  closets,  each  furnished  with 
two  straight  chairs  on  either  side  of  a  table,  a  carbon  print  of 
a  chilly-looking  cathedral,  and  a  slice  of  carpet  on  which  one 
was  rather  disappointed  not  to  find  the  label,  "Bath  Mat." 

"These  are  the  reception-rooms  where  the  girls  are  al 
lowed  to  receive  callers.  Any  time — up  to  a  quarter  to 
ten,"  Mrs.  Fike  said. 

Una  decided  that  they  were  better  fitted  for  a  hair- 
dressing  establishment. 

The  living-room  was  her  first  revelation  of  the  Temper 
ance  Home  as  something  besides  a  prison — as  an  abiding- 
place  for  living,  eager,  sensitive  girls.  It  was  not  luxu 
rious,  but  it  had  been  arranged  by  some  one  who  made 
allowance  for  a  weakness  for  pretty  things,  even  on  the 
part  of  young  females  observing  the  rules  in  a  Christian 
home.  There  was  a  broad  fireplace,  built-in  book-shelves, 
a  long  table;  and,  in  wicker  chairs  with  chintz  cushions, 
were  half  a  dozen  curious  girls.  Una  was  sure  that  one 
of  them,  a  fizzy-haired,  laughing  girl,  secretly  nodded  to 

her,  and  she  was  comforted. 
12  [169] 


THE    JOB 

Up  the  stairs  to  a  marvelous  bathroom  with  tempting 
shower-baths,  a  small  gymnasium,  and,  on  the  roof,  a 
garden  and  loggia  and  basket-ball  court.  It  was  cool  and 
fresh  up  here,  on  even  the  hottest  summer  evenings,  and 
here  the  girls  were  permitted  to  lounge  in  negligees  till 
after  ten,  Mrs.  Fike  remarked,  with  a  half-smile. 

Una  smiled  back. 

As  they  went  through  the  bedroom  floors,  with  Mrs. 
Fike  stalking  ahead,  a  graceful  girl  in  lace  cap  and  negligee 
came  bouncing  out  of  a  door  between  them,  drew  herself 
up  and  saluted  Mrs.  Fike's  back,  winked  at  Una  amicably, 
and  for  five  steps  imitated  Mrs.  Fike's  aggressive  stride. 

"Yes,  I  would  be  glad  to  come  here!"  Una  said,  cheer 
fully,  to  Mrs.  Fike,  who  looked  at  her  suspiciously,  but 
granted:  "Well,  we'll  look  up  your  references.  Meantime, 
if  you  like — or  don't  like,  I  suppose — you  might  talk  to 
a  Mrs.  Esther  Lawrence,  who  wants  a  room-mate." 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  I'd  like  a  room-mate." 

"  My  dear  young  lady,  this  place  is  simply  full  of  young 
persons  who  would  like  and  they  wouldn't  like — and 
forsooth  we  must  change  every  plan  to  suit  their  high  and 
mighty  convenience!  I'm  not  at  all  sure  that  we  shall 
have  a  single  room  vacant  for  at  least  six  months,  and  of 
course — " 

"Well,  could  I  talk  to  Mrs.— Lawrence,  was  it?" 

"Most  assuredly.  I  expect  you  to  talk  to  her!  Come 
with  me." 

Una  followed  abjectly,  and  the  matron  seemed  well 
pleased  with  her  reformation  of  this  wayward  young  woman. 
Her  voice  was  curiously  anemic,  however,  as  she  rapped  on 
a  bedroom  door  and  called,  "Oh,  Mrs.  Lawrence!" 

A  husky,  capable  voice  within,  "Yeah,  what  is  't?" 

"It's  Mrs.  Fike,  deary.  I  think  I  have  a  room-mate 
for  you." 

[170] 


THE   JOB 

"Well,  you  wait  '11  I  get  something  on,  will  you!'* 

Mrs.  Fike  waited.  She  waited  two  minutes.  She 
looked  at  a  wrist- watch  in  a  leather  band  while  she  tapped 
her  sensibly  clad  foot.  She  tried  again:  "We're  waiting, 
deary!" 

There  was  no  answer  from  within,  and  it  was  two  min 
utes  more  before  the  door  was  opened. 

Una  was  conscious  of  a  room  pleasant  with  white- 
enameled  woodwork;  a  denim-covered  couch  and  a  nar 
row,  prim  brass  bed,  a  litter  of  lingerie  and  sheets  of 
newspaper;  and,  as  the  dominating  center  of  it  all,  a 
woman  of  thirty,  tall,  high-breasted,  full-faced,  with  a 
nose  that  was  large  but  pleasant,  black  eyes  that  were 
cool  and  direct  and  domineering — Mrs.  Esther  Lawrence. 

"You  kept  us  waiting  so  long,"  complained  Mrs.  Fike. 

Mrs.  Lawrence  stared  at  her  as  though  she  were  an 
impudent  servant.  She  revolved  on  Una,  and  with  a 
self-confident  kindliness  in  her  voice,  inquired,  "What's 
your  name,  child?" 

"Una  Golden." 

"We'll  talk  this  over Thank  you,  Mrs.  Fike." 

"Well,  now,"  Mrs.  Fike  endeavored,  "be  sure  you  both 
are  satisfied — " 

"Don't  you  worry!    We  will,  all  right!" 

Mrs.  Fike  glared  at  her  and  retired. 

Mrs.  Lawrence  grinned,  stretched  herself  on  the  couch, 
mysteriously  produced  a  cigarette,  and  asked,  "Smoke?" 

"No,  thanks." 

"Sit  down,  child,  and  be  comfy.  Oh,  would  you  mind 
opening  that  window?  Not  supposed  to  smoke.  .  .  . 
Poor  Ma  Fike — I  just  can't  help  deviling  her.  Please  don't 
think  I'm  usually  as  nasty  as  I  am  with  her.  She  has  to 
be  kept  in  her  place  or  she'll  worry  you  to  death.  .  .  . 
Thanks.  ...  Do  sit  down — woggle  up  the  pillow  on  the 

1171 J 


THE    JOB 

bed  and  be  comfy.  .  .  .  You  look  like  a  nice  kid — me,  I'm 
a  lazy,  slatternly,  good-natured  old  hex,  with  all  the  bad 
habits  there  are  and  a  profound  belief  that  the  world  is 
a  hell  of  a  place,  but  I'm  fine  to  get  along  with,  and  so 
let's  take  a  shot  at  rooming  together.  If  we  scrap,  we 
can  quit  instanter,  and  no  bad  feelings.  .  .  .  I'd  really  like 
to  have  you  come  in,  because  you  look  as  though  you  were 
on,  even  if  you  are  rather  meek  and  kitteny;  and  I'm 
scared  to  death  they'll  wish  some  tough  little  Mick  on  to 
me,  or  some  pious  sister  who  hasn't  been  married  and  be 
lieves  in  pussy-footing  around  and  taking  it  all  to  God  in 
prayer  every  time  I  tell  her  the  truth.  .  .  .  What  do  you 
think,  kiddy?" 

Una  was  by  this  cock-sure,  disillusioned,  large  person 
more  delighted  than  by  all  the  wisdom  of  Mr.  Wilkins 
or  the  soothing  of  Mrs.  Sessions.  She  felt  that,  except  for 
Walter,  it  was  the  first  time  since  she  had  come  to  New 
York  that  she  had  found  an  entertaining  person. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "do  let's  try  it," 

"Good!  Now  let  me  warn  you  first  off,  that  I  may  be 
diverting  at  times,  but  I'm  no  good.  To-morrow  I'll 
pretend  to  be  a  misused  and  unfortunate  victim,  but  your 
young  and  almost  trusting  eyes  make  me  feel  candid  for 
about  fifteen  minutes.  I  certainly  got  a  raw  deal  from  my 
beloved  husband — that's  all  you'll  hear  from  me  about 
him.  By  the  way,  I'm  typical  of  about  ten  thousand  mar 
ried  women  in  business  about  whose  noble  spouses  nothing 
is  ever  said.  But  I  suppose  I  ought  to  have  bucked  up 
and  made  good  in  business  (I'm  a  bum  stenog.  for  Pit- 
cairn,  McClure  &  Stockley,  the  bond  house).  But  I 
can't.  I'm  too  lazy,  and  it  doesn't  seem  worth  while.  .  .  . 
And,  oh,  we  are  exploited,  women  who  are  on  jobs.  The 
bosses  give  us  a  lot  of  taffy  and  raise  their  hats — but  they 
don't  raise  our  wages,  and  they  think  that  if  they  keep  us 

[172] 


THE   JOB 

till  two  G.M.  taking  dictation  they  make  it  all  right  by 
apologizing.  Women  are  a  lot  more  conscientious  on 
jobs  than  men  are — but  that's  because  we're  fools;  you 
don't  catch  the  men  staying  till  six-thirty  because  the 
boss  has  shystered  all  afternoon  and  wants  to  catch  up 
on  his  correspondence.  But  we — of  course  we  don't  dare 
to  make  dates  for  dinner,  lest  we  have  to  stay  late.  We 
don't  dare!" 

"I  bet  you  do!" 

"Yes — well,  I'm  not  so  much  of  a  fool  as  some  of  the 
rest — or  else  more  of  a  one.  There's  Mamie  Magen — 
she's  living  here;  she's  with  Pitcairn,  too.  You'll  meet 
her  and  be  crazy  about  her.  She's  a  lame  Jewess,  and 
awfully  plain,  except  she's  got  lovely  eyes,  but  she's  got 
a  mind  like  a  tack.  Well,  she's  the  little  angel-pie  about 
staying  late,  and  some  day  she'll  probably  make  four 
thousand  bucks  a  year.  She'll  be  mayor  of  New  York, 
or  executive  secretary  of  the  Young  Women's  Atheist 
Association  or  something.  But  still,  she  doesn't  stay  late 
and  plug  hard  because  she's  scared,  but  because  she's  got 
ambition.  But  most  of  the  women — Lord!  they're  just 
cowed  sheep." 

"Yes,"  said  Una. 

A  million  discussions  of  Women  in  Business  going  on — 
a  thousand  of  them  at  just  that  moment,  perhaps — men 
employers  declaring  that  they  couldn't  depend  on  women 
in  their  offices,  women  asserting  that  women  were  the 
more  conscientious.  Una  listened  and  was  content;  she 
had  found  some  one  with  whom  to  play,  with  whom  to 
talk  and  hate  the  powers.  .  .  .  She  felt  an  impulse  to  tell 
Mrs.  Lawrence  all  about  Troy  Wilkins  and  her  mother  and 
— and  perhaps  even  about  Walter  Babson.  But  she  merely 
treasured  up  the  thought  that  she  could  do  that  some  day, 

and  politely  asked: 

[173] 


THE   JOB 

"What  about  Mrs.  Fike?  Is  she  as  bad  as  she  seems?*' 
"Why,  that's  the  best  little  skeleton  of  contention 
around  here.  There's  three  factions.  Some  girls  say  she's 
just  plain  devil — mean  as  a  floor-walker.  That's  what 
I  think — she's  a  rotter  and  a  four-flusher.  You  notice  the 
way  she  crawls  when  I  stand  up  to  her.  Why,  they  won't 
have  Catholics  here,  and  I'm  one  of  those  wicked  people, 
and  she  knows  it!  When  she  asked  my  religion  I  told  her 
I  was  a  'Romanist  Episcopalian,'  and  she  sniffed  and  put 
me  down  as  an  Episcopalian — I  saw  her!  .  .  .  Then  some 
of  the  girls  think  she's  really  good-hearted — just  gruff — 
bark  worse  than  her  bite.  But  you  ought  to  see  how  she 
barks  at  some  of  the  younger  girls — scares  'em  stiff — and 
keeps  picking  on  them  about  regulations — makes  their 
lives  miserable.  Then  there's  a  third  section  that  thinks 
she's  merely  institutionalized — training  makes  her  as  hard 
as  any  other  kind  of  a  machine.  You'll  find  lots  like  her 
in  this  town — in  all  the  charities." 

"But  the  girls — they  do  have  a  good  time  here?" 
"  Yes,  they  do.  It's  sort  of  fun  to  fight  Ma  Fike  and  all 
the  fool  rules.  I  enjoy  smoking  here  twice  as  much  as  I 
would  anywhere  else.  And  Fike  isn't  half  as  bad  as  the 
board  of  visitors — bunch  of  fat,  rich,  old  Upper- West- 
Siders  with  passementeried  bosoms,  doing  tea-table 
charity,  and  asking  us  impertinent  questions,  and  telling 
a  bunch  of  hard-worked  slaves  to  be  virtuous  and  wash 
behind  their  ears — the  soft,  ignorant,  conceited,  imprac 
tical  parasites!  But  still,  it's  all  sort  of  like  a  cranky 
boarding-school  for  girls — and  you  know  what  fun  the 
girls  have  there,  with  midnight  fudge  parties  and  a  teacher 
pussy-footing  down  the  hall  trying  to  catch  them." 
"I  don't  know.  I've  never  been  to  one." 
"Well — doesn't  matter.  .  .  .  Another  thing — some  day, 
when  you  come  to  know  more  men —  Know  many?" 

E1T41 


THE   JOB 

"Very  few." 

"  Well,  you'll  find  this  town  is  full  of  bright  young  men 
seeking  an  economical  solution  of  the  sex  problem — to 
speak  politely — and  you'll  find  it  a  relief  not  to  have 
them  on  your  door-step.  'S  safe  here.  .  .  .  Come  in  with 
me,  kid.  Give  me  an  audience  to  talk  to." 

"Yes,"  said  Una. 

§2 

It  was  hard  to  leave  the  kindly  Herbert  Grays  of  the 
flat,  but  Una  made  the  break  and  arranged  all  her  silver 
toilet-articles — which  consisted  of  a  plated-siiver  hair 
brush,  a  German-silver  nail-file,  and  a  good,  plain,  honest 
rubber  comb — on  the  bureau  in  Mrs.  Lawrence's  room. 

With  the  shyness  of  a  girl  on  her  first  night  in  boarding- 
school,  Una  stuck  to  Mrs.  Lawrence's  side  in  the  noisy 
flow  of  strange  girls  down  to  the  dining-room.  She  was 
used  to  being  self-absorbed  in  the  noisiest  restaurants,  but 
she  was  trembly  about  the  knees  as  she  crossed  the  room 
among  curious  upward  glances;  she  found  it  very  hard  to 
use  a  fork  without  clattering  it  on  the  plate  when  she  sat 
with  Mrs.  Lawrence  and  four  strangers,  at  a  table  for  six. 

They  all  were  splendidly  casual  and  wise  and  good- 
looking.  With  no  men  about  to  intimidate  them — or  to 
attract  them — they  made  a  solid  phalanx  of  bland,  satis 
fied  femininity,  and  Una  felt  more  barred  out  than  in  an 
office.  She  longed  for  a  man  who  would  be  curious  about 
her,  or  cross  with  her,  or  perform  some  other  easy,  cus 
tomary,  simple-hearted  masculine  trick. 

But  she  was  taken  into  the  friendship  of  the  table  when 
Mrs.  Lawrence  had  finished  a  harangue  on  the  cardinal 
sin  of  serving  bean  soup  four  times  in  two  weeks. 

"Oh,  shut  up,  Lawrence,  and  introduce  the  new  kid!" 
said  one  girl. 

[175] 


THE    JOB 

"You  wait  till  I  get  through  with  my  introductory  re 
marks,  Cassavant.  I'm  inspired  to-night.  I'm  going  to 
take  a  plate  of  bean  soup  and  fit  it  over  Ma  Fike's  head — 
upside  down." 

"Oh,  give  Ma  Fike  a  rest!" 

Una  was  uneasy.    She  wasn't  sure  whether  this  repartee 
was  friendly  good  spirits  or  a  nagging  feud.    Like  all  the 
ungrateful  human  race,  she  considered  whether  she  ought 
to  have  identified  herself  with  the  noisy  Esther  Lawrence 
on  entering  the  Home.     So  might  a  freshman  wonder, 
or    the    guest  of    a   club;    always  the  amiable  and  vul 
gar    Lawrences  are  most  doubted  when    they  are  best- 
i  intentioned./ 
^-JEJna  was  relieved  when  she  was  welcomed  by  the  four: 

Mamie  Magen,  the  lame  Jewess,  in  whose  big  brown 
eyes  was  an  eternal  prayer  for  all  of  harassed  humanity. 

Jennie  Cassavant,  in  whose  eyes  was  chiefly  a  prayer 
that  life  would  keep  on  being  interesting — she,  the  dark, 
slender,  loquacious,  observant  child  who  had  requested 
Mrs.  Lawrence  to  shut  up. 

Rose  Larsen,  like  a  pretty,  curly-haired  boy,  though  her 
shoulders  were  little  and  adorable  in  a  white-silk  waist. 

Mrs.  Amesbury,  a  nun  of  business,  pale  and  silent; 
her  thin  throat  shrouded  in  white  net;  her  voice  low  and 
self-conscious;  her  very  blood  seeming  white — a  woman 
with  an  almost  morbid  air  of  guarded  purity,  whom  you 
could  never  associate  with  the  frank  crudities  of  marriage. 
Her  movements  were  nervous  and  small;  she  never 
smiled;  you  couldn't  be  boisterous  with  her.  Yet,  Mrs. 
Lawrence  whispered  she  was  one  of  the  chief  operators  of 
the  telephone  company,  and,  next  to  the  thoughtful  and  suf 
fering  Mamie  Magen,  the  most  capable  woman  she  knew. 

"How  do  you  like  the  Tempest  and  Protest,  Miss  Gold 
en?"  the  lively  Cassavant  said,  airily. 

[176] 


THE   JOB 

«I  don't—" 

"Why!    The  Temperance  and  Protection  Home." 

"Well,  I  like  Mrs.  Fike's  shoes.  I  should  think  they'd 
be  fine  to  throw  at  cats." 

"Good  work,  Golden.    You're  admitted!" 

"Say,  Magen,"  said  Mrs.  Lawrence,  "Golden  agrees 
with  me  about  offices — no  chance  for  women — " 

Mamie  Magen  sighed,  and  "Esther,"  she  said,  in  a 
voice  which  must  naturally  have  been  rasping,  but  which 
she  had  apparently  learned  to  control  like  a  violin — 
"Esther  dear,  if  you  could  ever  understand  what  offices 
have  done  for  me !  On  the  East  Side — always  it  was  work 
and  work  and  watch  all  the  pretty  girls  in  our  block  get 
T.  B.  in  garment-factories,  or  marry  fellows  that  weren't 
any  good  and  have  a  baby  every  year,  and  get  so  thin  and 
worn  out;  and  the  garment- workers'  strikes  and  picket 
ing  on  cold  nights.  And  now  I  am  in  an  office — all 
the  fellows  are  dandy  and  polite — not  like  the  floor  super 
intendent  where  I  worked  in  a  department  store;  he  would 
call  down  a  cash-girl  for  making  change  slow — !  I  have 
a  chance  to  do  anything  a  man  can  do.  The  boss  is  just 
crazy  to  find  women  that  will  take  an  interest  in  the  work, 
like  it  was  their  own — you  know,  he  told  you  so  himself— 

"Sure,  I  know  the  line  of  guff,"  said  Mrs.  Lawrence. 
"And  you  take  an  interest,  and  get  eighteen  plunks  per 
for  doing  statistics  that  they  couldn't  get  a  real  college 
male  in  trousers  to  do  for  less  than  thirty-five." 

"Or  put  it  like  this,  Lawrence,"  said  Jennie  Cassavant. 
"Magen  admits  that  the  world  in  general  is  a  muddle,  and 
she  thinks  offices  are  heaven  because  by  comparison  with 
sweat-shops  they  are  half-way  decent." 

The  universal  discussion  was  on.  Everybody  but  Una 
and  the  nun  of  business  threw  everything  from  facts  to 
bread  pills  about  the  table,  and  they  enjoyed  themselves 

[177] 


THE    JOB 

in  as  unfeminized  and  brutal  a  manner  as  men  in  a  cafe. 
Una  had  found  some  one  with  whom  to  talk  her  own  shop 
— and  shop  is  the  only  reasonable  topic  of  conversation 
in  the  world;  witness  authors  being  intellectual  about 
editors  and  romanticism;  lovers  absorbed  in  the  technique 
of  holding  hands;  or  mothers  interested  in  babies,  recipes, 
and  household  ailments. 

After  dinner  they  sprawled  all  over  the  room  of  Una  and 
Mrs.  Lawrence,  and  talked  about  theaters,  young  men, 
and  Mrs.  Fike  for  four  solid  hours — all  but  the  pretty, 
boyish  Rose  Larsen,  who  had  a  young  man  coming  to  call 
at  eight.  Even  the  new-comer,  Una,  was  privileged  to  take 
part  in  giving  Rose  extensive,  highly  detailed,  and  not 
entirely  proper  advice — advice  of  a  completeness  which 
would  doubtless  have  astonished  the  suitor,  then  dressing 
somewhere  in  a  furnished  room  and  unconscious  of  the 
publicity  of  his  call.  Una  also  lent  Miss  Larsen  a  pair  of 
silk  stockings,  helped  three  other  girls  to  coerce  her  curly 
hair,  and  formed  part  of  the  solemn  procession  that  es 
corted  her  to  the  top  of  the  stairs  when  the  still  unconscious 
young  man  was  announced  from  below.  And  it  was  Una 
who  was  able  to  see  the  young  man  without  herself  being 
seen,  and  to  win  notoriety  by  being  able  to  report  that 
he  had  smooth  black  hair,  a  small  mustache,  and  carried 
a  stick. 

Una  was  living  her  boarding-school  days  now,  at  twenty- 
six.  The  presence  of  so  many  possible  friends  gave  her 
self-confidence  and  self-expression.  She  went  to  bed 
happy  that  night,  home  among  her  own  people,  among  the 
women  who,  noisy  or  reticent,  slack  or  aspiring,  were 
joined  to  make  possible  a  life  of  work  in  a  world  still 
heavy-scented  with  the  ideals  of  the  harem. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THAT  same  oasis  of  a  week  gave  to  Una  her  first 
taste  of  business  responsibility,  of  being  in  charge 
and  generally  comporting  herself  as  do  males.  But  in 
order  to  rouse  her  thus,  Chance  broke  the  inoffensive  limb 
of  unfortunate  Mr.  Troy  Wilkins  as  he  was  stepping  from 
his  small  bronchial  motor-car  to  an  icy  cement  block,  on 
seven  o'clock  of  Friday  evening. 

When  Una  arrived  at  the  office  on  Saturday  morning 
she  received  a  telephone  message  from  Mr.  Wilkins,  direct 
ing  her  to  take  charge  of  the  office,  of  Bessie  Kraker,  and 
the  office-boy,  and  the  negotiations  with  the  Comfy  Coast 
Building  and  Development  Company  regarding  the  plan 
ning  of  three  rows  of  semi-detached  villas. 

For  three  weeks  the  office  was  as  different  from  the 
treadmill  that  it  familiarly  had  been,  as  the  Home  Club 
and  Lawrence's  controversial  room  were  different  from 
the  Grays'  flat.  She  was  glad  to  work  late,  to  arrive  not 
at  eight-thirty,  but  at  a  quarter  to  eight,  to  gallop  down 
to  a  cafeteria  for  coffee  and  a  sandwich  at  noon,  to  be 
patient  with  callers,  and  to  try  to  develop  some  knowledge 
of  spelling  in  that  child  of  nature,  Bessie  Kraker.  She 
walked  about  the  office  quickly,  glancing  proudly  at  its 
neatness.  Daily,  with  an  operator's  headgear,  borrowed 
from  the  telephone  company,  over  her  head,  she  spent 
half  an  hour  talking  with  Mr.  Wilkins,  taking  his  dictation, 

1179] 


THE    JOB 

receiving  his  cautions  and  suggestions,  reassuring  him 
that  in  his  absence  the  Subway  ran  and  Tammany  still 
ruled.  After  an  agitated  conference  with  the  vice-president 
of  the  Comfy  Coast  Company,  during  which  she  was  elo 
quent  as  an  automobile  advertisement  regarding  Mr. 
Wilkins's  former  masterpieces  with  their  "every  modern 
improvement,  parquet  floors,  beam  ceilings,  plate-rack, 
hardwood  trim  throughout,  natty  and  novel  deco 
rations,"  Una  reached  the  zenith  of  salesman's  virtues — • 
she  "closed  the  deal." 

Mr.  Wilkins  came  back  and  hemmed  and  hawed  a  good 
deal;  he  praised  the  work  she  hadn't  considered  well  done, 
and  pointed  out  faults  in  what  she  considered  particularly 
clever  achievements,  and  was  laudatory  but  dissatisfying 
in  general.  In  a  few  days  he,  in  turn,  reached  the  zenith 
of  virtue  on  the  part  of  boss — he  raised  her  salary.  To 
fifteen  dollars  a  week.  She  was  again  merely  his  secretary, 
however,  and  the  office  trudged  through  another  normal 
period  when  all  past  drama  seemed  incredible  and  all  the 
future  drab. 

But  Una  was  certain  now  that  she  could  manage  busi 
ness,  could  wheedle  Bessies  and  face  pompous  vice-presi 
dents  and  satisfy  querulous  Mr.  Wilkinses.  She  looked 
forward;  she  picked  at  architecture  as  portrayed  in  Mr. 
Wilkins's  big  books;  she  learned  the  reason  and  manner 
of  the  rows  of  semi-detached,  semi-suburban,  semi- 
comfortable,  semi-cheap,  and  somewhat  less  than  semi- 
attractive  houses. 

She  was  not  afraid  of  the  office  world  now;  she  had  a  part 
in  the  city  and  a  home. 


She  thought  of  Walter  Babson.    Sometimes,  when  Mrs. 
Lawrence  was  petulant  or  the  office  had  been  unusually 

[ISO] 


THE    JOB 

exhausting,  she  fancied  that  she  missed  him.  But  instead 
of  sitting  and  brooding  over  folded  hands,  in  woman's 
ancient  fashion,  she  took  a  man's  unfair  advantage — 
she  went  up  to  the  gymnasium  of  the  Home  Club  and 
worked  with  the  chest-weights  and  flying-rings — a  solemn, 
happy,  busy  little  figure.  She  laughed  more  deeply,  and 
she  felt  the  enormous  rhythm  of  the  city,  not  as  a  menacing 
roar,  but  as  a  hymn  of  triumph. 

She  could  never  be  intimate  with  Mamie  Magen  as  she 
was  with  the  frankly  disillusioned  Mrs.  Lawrence;  she 
never  knew  whether  Miss  Magen  really  liked  her  or  not; 
her  smile,  which  transfigured  her  sallow  face,  was  equally 
bright  for  Una,  for  Mrs.  Fike,  and  for  beggars.  Yet  it 
was  Miss  Magen  whose  faith  in  the  purpose  of  the  strug 
gling  world  inspired  Una.  Una  walked  with  her  up  Madi 
son  Avenue,  past  huge  old  brownstone  mansions,  and  she 
was  unconscious  of  suiting  her  own  quick  step  to  Miss 
Magen's  jerky  lameness  as  the  Jewess  talked  of  her  ideals 
of  a  business  world  which  should  have  generosity  and 
chivalry  and  the  accuracy  of  a  biological  laboratory^  in 
which  there  would  be  no  need  of  charity  to  employee.  .  .  . 
Or  to  employer.  • 

,  /  Mamie  Magen  was  the  most  highly  evolved  person  Una 
had  ever  known.  Una  had,  from  books  and  newspapers 

^and  Walter  Babson,  learned  that  there  were  such  things 
as  socialists  and  earnest  pessimists,  and  the  race  sketchily 
called  "  Bohemians  " — writers  and  artists  and  social  work 
ed,  who  drank  claret  and  made  love  and  talked  about  the 
free  theater,  all  on  behalf  of  the  brotherhood  of  man. 
Una  pictured  the  socialists  as  always  attacking  capi- 

1  talists;  the  pessimists  as  always  being  bitter  and  egotistic; 
Bohemians  as  always  being  dissipated,  but  as  handsome 
and  noisy  and  gay. 

But  Mamie  Magen  was  a  socialist  who  believed  that 

[181] 


THE    JOB 

the  capitalists  with  their  profit-sharing  and  search  for 
improved  methods  of  production  were  as  sincere  in  desir 
ing  the  scientific  era  as  were  the  most  burning  socialists; 
who  loved  and  understood  the  most  oratorical  of  the  young 
socialists  with  their  hair  in  their  eyes,  but  also  loved  and 
understood  the  clean  little  college  boys  who  came  into 
business  with  a  desire  to  make  it  not  a  war,  but  a  crusade. 
She  was  a  socialist  who  was  determined  to  control  and 
glorify  business;  a  pessimist  who  was,  in  her  gentle  reti 
cent  way,  as  scornful  of  half-churches,  half-governments, 
half -educations,  as  the  cynical  Mrs.  Lawrence.  Finally, 
she  who  was  not  handsome  or  dissipated  or  gay,  but  sallow 
and  lame  and  Spartan,  knew  "Bohemia"  better  than  most 
of  the  professional  Hobohemians.  As  an  East  Side  child 
she  had  grown  up  in  the  classes  and  parties  of  the  Uni 
versity  Settlement;  she  had  been  held  upon  the  then 
juvenile  knees  of  half  the  distinguished  writers  and  fight 
ers  for  reform,  who  had  begun  their  careers  as  settlement 
workers;  she,  who  was  still  unknown,  a  clerk  and  a  no 
body,  and  who  wasn't  always  syntactical,  was  accus 
tomed  to  people  whose  names  had  been  made  large  and 
sonorous  by  newspaper  publicity;  and  at  the  age  when 
ambitious  lady  artists  and  derailed  Walter  Babsons  came 
to  New  York  and  determinedly  seized  on  Bohemia,  Mamie 
Magen  had  outgrown  Bohemia  and  become  a  worker. 

To  Una  she  explained  the  city,  made  it  comprehensible, 
made  art  and  economics  and  philosophy  human  and 
tangible.  Una  could  not  always  follow  her,  but  from  her 
she  caught  the  knowledge  that  the  world  and  all  its  wis 
dom  is  but  a  booby,  blundering  school-boy  that  needs 
management\nd  could  be  managed,  if  men  and  women 
would  be  human  beings  instead  of  just  business  men,  or 
plumbers,  or  army  officers,vor  commuters,  or  educators,  or 
authors,  or  clubwomen,  or  traveling  salesmen,  or  Socialists, 


THE    JOB 

or  Republicans,  or  Salvation  Army  leaders,  or  wearers  of 
clothes.  She  preached  to  Una  a  personal  kinghood,  an 
education  in  brotherhood  and  responsible  nobility,  which 
took  in  Una's  job  as  much  as  it  did  government  ownership 
or  reading  poetry. 

§3 

Not  always  was  Una  breathlessly  trying  to  fly  after  the 
lame  but  broad-winged  Mamie  Magen.  She  attended 
High  Mass  at  the  Spanish  church  on  Washington  Heights 
with  Mrs.  Lawrence;  felt  the  beauty  of  the  ceremony; 
admired  the  simple,  classic  church;  adored  the  padre; 
and  for  about  one  day  planned  to  scorn  Panama  Method 
ism  and  become  a  Catholic,  after  which  day  she  forgot 
about  Methodism  and  Catholicism.  She  also  accom 
panied  Mrs.  Lawrence  to  a  ceremony  much  less  impressive 
and  much  less  easily  forgotten — to  a  meeting  with  a  man. 

Mrs.  Lawrence  never  talked  about  her  husband,  but  in 
this  reticence  she  was  not  joined  by  Rose  Larsen  or 
Jennie  Cassavant.  Jennie  maintained  that  the  misfitted 
Mr.  Lawrence  was  alive,  very  much  so;  that  Esther  and 
he  weren't  even  divorced,  but  merely  separated.  The  only 
sanction  Mrs.  Lawrence  ever  gave  to  this  report  was  to 
blurt  out  one  night:  "Keep  up  your  belief  in  the  mysticism 
of  love  and  all  that  kind  of  sentimental  sex  stuff  as  long 
as  you  can.  You'll  lose  it  some  day  fast  enough.  Me,  I 
know  that  a  woman  needs  a  man  just  the  same  as  a  man 
needs  a  woman — and  just  as  darned  unpoetically.  Being 
brought  up  a  Puritan,  I  never  can  quite  get  over  the  feel 
ing  that  I  oughtn't  to  have  anything  to  do  with  men — 
me  as  I  am — but  believe  me  it  isn't  any  romantic  ideal. 
I  sure  want  'em." 

Mrs.  Lawrence  continually  went  to  dinners  and  theaters 
with  men;  she  told  Una  all  the  details,  as  women  do,  from 

[183] 


THE    JOB 

the  first  highly  proper  handshake  down  in  the  pure-minded 
hall  of  the  Home  Club  at  eight,  to  the  less  proper  good 
night  kiss  on  the  dark  door-step  of  the  Home  Club  at 
midnight.  But  she  was  careful  to  make  clear  that  one 
kiss  was  all  she  ever  allowed,  though  she  grew  dithyrambic 
over  the  charming,  lonely  men  with  whom  she  played — • 
a  young  doctor  whose  wife  was  in  a  madhouse;  a  clever, 
restrained,  unhappy  old  broker. 

Once  she  broke  out:  "Hang  it!  I  want  love,  and  that's 
all  there  is  to  it — that's  crudely  all  there  ever  is  to  it 
with  any  woman,  no  matter  how  much  she  pretends  to 
be  satisfied  with  mourning  the  dead  or  caring  for  children, 
or  swatting  a  job  or  being  religious  or  anything  else. 
I'm  a  low-brow;  I  can't  give  you  the  economics  of  it  and 
the  spiritual  brotherhood  and  all  that  stuff,  like  Mamie 
Magen.  But  I  know  women  want  a  man  and  love — all 
of  it." 

Next  evening  she  took  Una  to  dinner  at  a  German  res 
taurant,  as  chaperon  to  herself  and  a  quiet,  insistent, 
staring,  good-looking  man  of  forty.  While  Mrs.  Lawrence 
and  the  man  talked  about  the  opera,  then'  eyes  seemed  to 
be  defying  each  other.  Una  felt  that  she  was  not  wanted. 
When  the  man  spoke  hesitatingly  of  a  cabaret,  Una  made 
excuse  to  go  home. 

Mrs.  Lawrence  did  not  return  till  two.  She  moved 
about  the  room  quietly,  but  Una  awoke. 

"I'm  glad  I  went  with  him,"  Mrs.  Lawrence  said,  an 
grily,  as  though  she  were  defending  herself. 

Una  asked  no  questions,  but  her  good  little  heart  was 
afraid.  Though  she  retained  her  joy  in  Mrs.  Lawrence's 
willingness  to  take  her  and  her  job  seriously,  Una  was 
dismayed  by  Mrs.  Lawrence's  fiercely  uneasy  interest  in 
men.  .  .  .  She  resented  the  insinuation  that  the  sharp, 
unexpected  longing  to  feel  Walter's  arms  about  her  might 

[1843 


THE    JOB 

be  only  a  crude  physical  need  for  a  man,  instead  of  a 
mystic  fidelity  to  her  lost  love. 

Being  a  lame  marcher,  a  mind  which  was  admittedly 
"shocked  at  each  discovery  of  the  aliveness  of  theory," 
Una's  observation  of  the  stalking  specter  of  sex  did  not 
lead  her  to  make  any  very  lucid  conclusions  about  the 
matter.  But  she  did  wonder  a  little  if  this  whole  business 
of  marriages  and  marriage  ceremonies  and  legal  bonds 
which  any  clerkly  pastor  can  gild  with  religiosity  was  so 
sacred  as  she  had  been  informed  in  Panama.  She  won 
dered  a  little  if  Mrs.  Lawrence's  obvious  requirement  of 
man's  companionship  ought  to  be  turned  into  a  sneaking 
theft  of  love.  Una  Golden  was  not  a  philosopher;  she 
Was  a  workaday  woman.  But  into  her  workaday  mind 
came  a  low  light  from  the  fire  which  was  kindling  the( 
World;  the  dual  belief  that  life  is  too  sacred  to  be  taken 
in  war  and  filthy  industries  and  dull  education;  and  that 
most  forms  and  organizations  and  inherited  castes  are  not, 
sacred  at  all. 


The  aspirations  of  Mamie  Magen  and  the  alarming 
frankness  of  Mrs.  Lawrence  were  not  all  her  life  at  the 
Home  Club.  With  pretty  Rose  Larsen  and  half  a  dozen 
others  she  played.  They  went  in  fluttering,  beribboned 
parties  to  the  theater;  they  saw  visions  at  symphony  con 
certs,  and  slipped  into  exhibits  of  contemporary  artists  at 
private  galleries  on  Fifth  Avenue.  When  spring  came  they 
had  walking  parties  in  Central  Park,  in  Van  Cortlandt 
Park,  on  the  Palisades,  across  Staten  Island,  and  picnicked 
by  themselves  or  with  neat,  trim-minded,  polite  men 
clerks  from  the  various  offices  and  stores  where  the  girls 
Worked.  They  had  a  perpetual  joy  in  annoying  Mrs. 
Fike  by  parties  on  fire-escapes,  by  lobster  Newburgh 

13  [185] 


THE    JOB 

suppers  at  midnight.  They  were  discursively  excited  for 
a  week  when  Rose  Larsen  was  followed  from  the  surface- 
car  to  the  door  by  an  unknown  man;  and  they  were  un 
happily  excited  when,  without  explanations,  slim,  daring 
Jennie  Cassavant  was  suddenly  asked  to  leave  the  Home 
Club;  and  they  had  a  rose-lighted  dinner  when  Livy 
Hedger  announced  her  engagement  to  a  Newark  lawyer. 

Various  were  the  Home  Club  women  in  training  and 
work  and  ways;  they  were  awkward  stenographers  and 
dependable  secretaries;  fashion  artists  and  department- 
store  clerks;  telephone  girls  and  clever  college-bred  per 
sons  who  actually  read  manuscripts  and  proof,  and  wrote 
captions  or  household-department  squibs  for  women's 
magazines — real  editors,  or  at  least  real  assistant  edi 
tors;  persons  who  knew  authors  and  illustrators,  as  did 
the  great  Magen.  They  were  attendants  in  dentists' 
offices  and  teachers  in  night-schools  and  filing-girls  and 
manicurists  and  cashiers  and  blue-linen-gowned  super- 
waitresses  in  artistic  tea-rooms.  And  cliques,  caste,  they 
did  have.  Yet  their  comradeship  was  very  sweet,  quite 
real;  the  factional  lines  were  not  drawn  according  to 
salary  or  education  or  family,  but  according  to  gaiety  or 
sobriety  or  propriety. 

Una  was  finding  not  only  her  lost  boarding-school  days, 
but  her  second  youth — perhaps  her  first  real  youth. 

Though  the  questions  inspired  by  the  exceptional  Miss 
Magen  and  the  defiant  Mrs.  Lawrence  kept  her  restless, 
her  association  with  the  play-girls,  her  growing  acquaint 
anceship  with  women  who  were  easy-minded,  who  had 
friends  and  relatives  and  a  place  in  the  city,  who  did  not 
agonize  about  their  jobs  or  their  loves,  who  received  young 
men  casually  and  looked  forward  to  marriage  and  a  com 
fortable  flat  in  Harlem,  made  Una  feel  the  city  as  her 
own  proper  dwelling.  Now  she  no  longer  plodded  along 

[186] 


THE   JOB 

the  streets  wonderingly,  a  detached  little  stranger;  she 
walked  briskly  and  contentedly,  heedless  of  crowds,  re 
turning  to  her  own  home  in  her  own  city.  Most  workers 
of  the  city  remain  strangers  to  it  always.  But  chance  had 
made  Una  an  insider. 

It  was  another  chapter  in  the  making  of  a  business 
woman,  that  spring  of  happiness  and  new  stirrings  in  | 
the  Home  Club;   it  was  another  term  in  the  unplanned,  I 
uninstructed,   muddling,  chance-governed  college  which  ' 
civilization  unwittingly  keeps  for  the  training  of  men  and 
women  who  will  carry  on  the  work  of  the  world. 

It  passed  swiftly,  and  July  and  vacation-time  came  to 
Una. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

IT  was  hard  enough  to  get  Mr.  Wilkins  to  set  a  definite 
date  for  her  summer  vacation;  the  time  was  delayed 
and  juggled  till  Mrs.  Lawrence,  who  was  to  have  gone  with 
Una,  had  to  set  off  alone.  But  it  was  even  harder  for  Una 
to  decide  where  to  go  for  her  vacation. 

There  was  no  accumulation  of  places  which  she  had  fer 
vently  been  planning  to  see.  Indeed,  Una  wasn't  much 
interested  in  any  place  besides  New  York  and  Panama; 
and  of  the  questions  and  stale  reminiscences  of  Panama 
she  was  weary.  She  decided  to  go  to  a  farm  in  the  Berk- 
shires  largely  because  she  had  overheard  a  girl  in  the  Sub 
way  say  that  it  was  a  good  place. 

When  she  took  the  train  she  was  brave  with  a  new 
blue  suit,  a  new  suit-case,  a  two-pound  box  of  candy,  copies 
of  the  Saturday  Evening  Post  and  the  Woman's  Home 
Companion,  and  Jack  London's  People  of  the  Abyss,  which 
Mamie  Magen  had  given  her.  All  the  way  to  Pittsfield, 
all  the  way  out  to  the  farm  by  stage,  she  sat  still  and 
looked  politely  at  every  large  detached  elm,  every  cow 
or  barefoot  boy. 

She  had  set  her  methodical  mind  in  order;  had  told 
herself  that  she  would  have  time  to  think  and  observe. 
Yet  if  a  census  had  been  taken  of  her  thoughts,  not  sex 
nor  economics,  not  improving  observations  of  the  flora 
and  fauna  of  western  Massachusetts,  would  have  been 

found,  but  a  half-glad,  half-hysterical  acknowledgment 

[188] 


THE    JOB 

that  she  had  not  known  how  tired  and  office-soaked  she 
was  till  now,  when  she  had  relaxed,  and  a  dull,  recurrent 
wonder  if  two  weeks  would  be  enough  to  get  the  office 
poison  out  of  her  body.  Now  that  she  gave  up  to  it,  she 
was  so  nearly  sick  that  she  couldn't  see  the  magic  of  the 
sheer  green  hillsides  and  unexpected  ponds,  the  elm-shrined 
winding  road,  towns  demure  and  white.  She  did  not  no 
tice  the  huge,  inn-like  farm-house,  nor  her  bare  room,  nor 
the  noisy  dining-room.  She  sat  on  the  porch,  exhausted, 
telling  herself  that  she  was  enjoying  the  hill's  slope  down 
to  a  pond  that  was  yet  bright  as  a  silver  shield,  though 
its  woody  shores  had  blurred  into  soft  darkness,  the  en 
chantment  of  frog  choruses,  the  cooing  pigeons  in  the  barn 
yard. 

"Listen.  A  cow  mooing.  Thank  the  Lord  I'm  away 
from  New  York — clean  forgotten  it — might  be  a  million 
miles  away!"  she  assured  herself. 

Yet  all  the  while  she  continued  to  picture  the  office — 
Bessie's  desk,  Mr.  Wilkins's  inkwell,  the  sinister  gray 
scrub-rag  in  the  wash-room,  and  she  knew  that  she  needed 
some  one  to  lure  her  mind  from  the  office. 

She  was  conscious  that  some  man  had  left  the  chattering 
rocking-chair  group  at  the  other  end  of  the  long  porch 
and  had  taken  the  chair  beside  her. 

"Miss  Golden!"  a  thick  voice  hesitated. 

"Yes." 

"Say,  I  thought  it  was  you.  Well,  well,  the  world's 
pretty  small,  after  all.  Say,  I  bet  you  don't  remember  me." 

In  the  porch  light  Una  beheld  a  heavy-shouldered, 
typical  American  business  man,  in  derby  hat  and 
clipped  mustache,  his  jowls  shining  with  a  recent  shave; 
an  alert,  solid  man  of  about  forty-five.  She  remembered 
him  as  a  man  she  had  been  glad  to  meet;  she  felt  guiltily 

that  she  ought  to  know  him — perhaps  he  was  a  Wilkins 

[1891 


THE    JOB 

client,  and  she  was  making  future  difficulty  in  the  office. 
But  place  him  she  could  not. 

"Oh  yes,  yes,  of  course,  though  I  can't  just  remember 
your  name.  I  always  can  remember  faces,  but  I  never 
can  remember  names,"  she  achieved. 

"Sure,  I  know  how  it  is.  I've  often  said,  I  never  forget 
a  face,  but  I  never  can  remember  names.  Well,  sir,  you 
remember  Sanford  Hunt  that  went  to  the  commercial 
college—" 

"Oh,  now  I  know — you're  Mr.  Schwirtz  of  the  Lowry 
Paint  Company,  who  had  lunch  with  us  and  told  me  about 
the  paint  company — Mr.  Julius  Schwirtz." 

"You  got  me.  .  .  .  Though  the  fellows  usually  call  me 
'Eddie' — Julius  Edward  Schwirtz  is  my  full  name — my 
father  was  named  Julius,  and  my  mother's  oldest  brother 
was  named  Edward — my  old  dad  used  to  say  it  wasn't 
respectful  to  him  because  I  always  preferred  *  Eddie' — 
old  codger  used  to  get  quite  het  up  about  it.  Julius 
sounds  like  you  was  an  old  Roman  or  something,  and  in 
the  business  you  got  to  have  a  good  easy  name.  Say, 
speaking  of  that,  I  ain't  with  Lowry  any  more;  I'm  chief 
salesman  for  the  J2tna  Automobile  Varnish  and  Wax 
Company.  I  certainly  got  a  swell  territory — New  York, 
Philly,  Bean-Town,  Washi'nun,  Balt'more,  Cleveland, 
Columbus,  Akron,  and  so  on,  and  of  course  most  especially 
Detroit.  Sell  right  direct  to  the  jobbers  and  the  big  auto 
companies.  Good  bunch  of  live  wires.  Some  class!  I'm 
rolling  in  my  little  old  four  thousand  bucks  a  year  now, 
where  before  I  didn't  hardly  make  more  'n  twenty-six  or 
twenty-eight  hundred.  Keeps  me  on  the  jump  alrightee. 
Fact.  I  got  so  tired  and  run-down —  I  hadn't  planned  to 
take  any  vacation  at  all,  but  the  boss  himself  says  to  me, 
'Eddie,  we  can't  afford  to  let  you  get  sick;  you're  the 
best  man  we've  got,'  he  says,  'and  you  got  to  take  a  good 

[190] 


THE   JOB 

vacation  now  and  forget  all  about  business  for  a  couple 
weeks.'  'Well/  I  says,  'I  was  just  wondering  if  you  was 
smart  enough  to  get  along  without  me  if  I  was  to  sneak 
out  and  rubber  at  some  scenery  and  maybe  get  up  a  flir 
tation  with  a  pretty  summer  girl' — and  I  guess  that  must 
be  you,  Miss  Golden! — and  he  laughs  and  says,  'Oh  yes, 
I  guess  the  business  wouldn't  go  bust  for  a  few  days,'  and 
so  I  goes  down  and  gets  a  shave  and  a  hair-cut  and  a  singe 
and  a  shampoo — there  ain't  as  much  to  cut  as  there  used 
to  be,  though — ha,  ha! — and  here  I  am." 

"Yes!"  said  Una  affably 

Miss  Una  Golden,  of  Panama  and  the  office,  did  not 
in  the  least  feel  superior  to  Mr.  Eddie  Schwirtz's  robust 
commonness.  The  men  she  knew,  except  for  pariahs  like 
Walter  Babson,  talked  thus.  She  could  admire  Mamie 
Magen's  verbal  symphonies,  but  with  Mr.  Schwirtz  she 
was  able  to  forget  her  little  private  stock  of  worries  and 
settle  down  to  her  holiday. 

Mr.  Schwirtz  hitched  forward  in  his  rocker,  took  of? 
his  derby,  stroked  his  damp  forehead,  laid  his  derby  and 
both  his  hands  on  his  stomach,  rocked  luxuriously,  and 
took  a  fresh  hold  on  the  conversation: 

"But  say!  Here  I  am  gassing  all  about  myself,  and 
you'll  want  to  be  hearing  about  Sandy  Hunt.  Seen  him 
lately?" 

"No,  I've  lost  track  of  him — you  do  know  how  it  is  in 
such  a  big  city." 

"Sure,  I  know  how  it  is.  I  was  saying  to  a  fellow  just 
the  other  day,  'Why,  gosh  all  fish-hooks!'  I  was  saying, 
'it  seems  like  it's  harder  to  keep  in  touch  with  a  fellow 
here  in  New  York  than  if  he  lived  in  Chicago — time  you 
go  from  the  Bronx  to  Flatbush  or  Weehawken,  it's  time 
to  turn  round  again  and  go  home!'  Well,  Hunt's  married 
— you  know,  to  that  same  girl  that  was  with  us  at  lunch 

[191] 


THE    JOB 

that  day — and  he's  got  a  nice  little  house  in  Secaucus. 
He's  still  with  Lowry.  Good  job,  too,  assistant  book 
keeper,  pulling  down  his  little  twenty-seven-fifty  regular, 
and  they  got  a  baby,  and  let  me  tell  you  she  makes  him  a 
mighty  fine  wife,  mighty  bright  little  woman.  Well,  now, 
say!  How  are  you  getting  along,  Miss  Golden?  Every 
thing  going  bright  and  cheery?" 

"Yes— kind  of." 

"Well,  that's  good.  You'll  do  fine,  and  pick  up  some 
good  live  wire  of  a  husband,  too — " 

"I'm  never  going  to  marry.    I'm  going — " 

"  Why,  sure  you  are !  Nice,  bright  woman  like  you  stick- 
Ing  in  an  office !  Office  is  no  place  for  a  woman.  Takes 
a  man  to  stand  the  racket.  Home's  the  place  for  a 
woman,  except  maybe  some  hatchet-faced  old  battle-ax 
like  the  cashier  at  our  shop.  Shame  to  spoil  a  nice  home 
with  her.  Why,  she  tried  to  hold  up  my  vacation  money, 
because  she  said  I'd  overdrawn — " 

"Oh,  but  Mr.  Schwirtz,  what  can  a  poor  girl  do,  if  you 
high  and  mighty  men  don't  want  to  marry  her?" 

"  Pshaw.  There  ain't  no  trouble  like  that  in  your  case, 
I'll  gamble!" 

"Oh,  but  there  is.  If  I  were  pretty,  like  Rose  Larsen 
— she's  a  girl  that  stays  where  I  live — oh!  I  could  just 
eat  her  up,  she's  so  pretty,  curly  hair  and  big  brown  eyes 
and  a  round  face  like  a  boy  in  one  of  those  medieval 
pictures — " 

"That's  all  right  about  pretty  squabs.  They're  all  right 
for  a  bunch  of  young  boys  that  like  a  cute  nose  and  a  good 
figger  better  than  they  do  sense —  Well,  you  notice  I 
remembered  you,  all  right,  when  you  went  and  forgot  poor 
old  Eddie  Schwirtz.  Yessir,  by  golly!  teetotally  plumb 
forgot  me.  I  guess  I  won't  get  over  that  slam  for  a 
while." 

[192] 


THE    JOB 

"Now  that  isn't  fair,  Mr.  Schwirtz;  you  know  it  isn't 
— it's  almost  dark  here  on  the  porch,  even  with  the  lamps. 
I  couldn't  really  see  you.  And,  besides,  I  did  recognize 
you — I  just  couldn't  think  of  your  name  for  the  moment." 

"Yuh,  that  listens  fine,  but  poor  old  Eddie's  heart  is 
clean  busted  just  the  same — me  thinking  of  you  and  your 
nice  complexion  and  goldie  hair  and  the  cute  way  you 
talked  at  our  lunch — whenever  Hunt  shut  up  and  gave 
you  a  chance — honest,  I  haven't  forgot  yet  the  way  you 
,  took  off  old  man — what  was  it? — the  old  stiff  that  ran  the 
commercial  college,  what  was  his  name?" 

"Mr.  Whiteside?"    Una  was  enormously  pleased  and 
interested.     Far  off  and  dim  were  Miss  Magen  and  the 
distressing  Mrs.  Lawrence;    and  the  office  of  Mr.  Troy  : 
Wilkins  was  fading. 

"Yuh,  I  guess  that  was  it.  Do  you  remember  how  you 
gave  us  an  imitation  of  him  telling  the  class  that  if  they'd 
work  like  sixty  they  might  get  to  be  little  tin  gods  on  \ 
wheels  like  himself,  and  how  he'd  always  keep  dropping 
his  eye-glasses  and  fishing  'em  up  on  a  cord  while  he  was 
talking — don't  you  remember  how  you  took  him  off? 
Why,  I  thought  Mrs.  Hunt-that-is — I've  forgotten  what 
her  name  was  before  Sandy  married  her — why,  I  thought 
she'd  split,  laughing.  She  admired  you  a  whole  pile, 
lemme  tell  you;  I  could  see  that." 

Not  unwelcome  to  the  ears  of  Una  was  this  praise,  but 
she  was  properly  deprecatory:  "Why,  she  probably 
thought  I  was  just  a  stuffy,  stupid,  ugly  old  thing,  as  old 
as—" 

"As  old  as  Eddie  Schwirtz,  heh?  Go  on,  insult  me! 
I  can  stand  it!  Lemme  tell  you  I  ain't  forty-three  till 
next  October.  Look  here  now,  little  sister,  I  know  when 
a  woman  admires  another.  Lemme  tell  you,  if  you'd 
ever  traveled  for  dry-goods  like  I  did,  out  of  St.  Paul 

[193] 


THE   JOB 

once,  for  a  couple  of  months — nev-er  again;  paint  and 
varnish  is  good  enough  for  Eddie  any  day — and  if  you'd 
sold  a  bunch  of  women  buyers,  you'd  know  how  they 
looked  when  they  liked  a  thing,  alrightee!  Not  that  I 
want  to  knock  The  Sex,  y*  understand,  but  you  know 
yourself,  bein'  a  shemale,  that  there's  an  awful  lot  of 
cats  among  the  ladies — God  bless  'em — that  wouldn't  ad 
mit  another  lady  was  beautiful,  not  if  she  was  as  good- 
looking  as  Lillian  Russell,  corking  figger  and  the  swellest 
dresser  in  town." 

"Yes,  perhaps — sometimes,"  said  Una. 

She  did  not  find  Mr.  Schwirtz  dull. 

"But  I  was  saying:  It  was  a  cinch  to  see  that  Sandy's 
girl  thought  you  was  ace  high,  alrightee.  She  kept  her 
eyes  glommed  onto  you  all  the  time." 

"But  what  would  she  find  to  admire?" 

"  Uh-huh,  fishing  for  compliments !" 

"No,  I  am  not,  so  there!"  Una's  cheeks  burned  de 
lightfully.  She  was  back  in  Panama  again — in  Panama, 
where  for  endless  hours  on  dark  porches  young  men  tease 
young  women  and  tell  them  that  they  are  beautiful.  .  .  . 
Mr.  Schwirtz  was  direct  and  "jolly,"  like  Panama  people; 
but  he  was  so  much  more  active  and  forceful  than  Henry 
Carson;  so  much  more  hearty  than  Charlie  Martindale; 
so  distinguished  by  that  knowledge  of  New  York  streets 
and  cafes  and  local  heroes  which,  to  Una,  the  recent  con 
vert  to  New  York,  seemed  the  one  great  science. 

Their  rockers  creaked  in  complete  sympathy. 

The  perfect  summer  man  took  up  his  shepherd's  tale: 

"There's  a  whole  lot  of  things  she'd  certainly  oughta 
have  admired  in  you,  lemme  tell  you.  I  suppose  probably 
Maxine  Elliott  is  better-looking  than  what  you  are,  maybe, 
but  I  always  was  crazy  over  your  kind  of  girl — blond 

hair  and  nice,  clear  eyes  and  just  shoulder-high — kind  of  a 

[194] 


THE    JOB 

girl  that  could  snuggle  down  beside  a  fireplace  and  look 
like  she  grew  there — not  one  of  these  domineerin'  sufferin' 
cats  females.  No,  nor  one  of  these  overdressed  New- 
York  chickens,  neither,  but  cute  and  bright — " 

"Oh,  you're  just  flattering  me,  Mr.  Schwirtz.  Mr. 
Hunt  told  me  I  should  watch  out  for  you." 

"No,  no;  you  got  me  wrong  there.  *I  dwell  on  what- 
is-it  mountain,  and  my  name  is  Truthful  James/  like  the 
poet  says !  Believe  me,  I  may  be  a  rough-neck  drummer, 
but  I  notice  these  things." 

"Oh!  ...  Oh,  do  you  like  poetry?" 

Without  knowing  precisely  what  she  v/as  trying  to  do, 
Una  was  testing  Mr.  Schwirtz  according  to  the  somewhat 
contradictory  standards  of  culture  which  she  had  ac 
quired  from  Walter  Babson,  Mamie  Magen,  Esther  Law 
rence,  Mr.  Wilkins's  books  on  architecture,  and  stray 
copies  of  The  Outlook,  The  Literary  Digest,  Current  Opinion, 
The  Nation,  The  Independent,  The  Review  of  Reviews, 
The  World's  Work,  Collier's,  and  The  Atlantic  Monthly, 
which  she  had  been  glancing  over  in  the  Home  Club 
library.  She  hadn't  learned  much  of  the  technique  of  the 
arts,  but  she  had  acquired  an  uneasy  conscience  of  the 
sort  which  rather  discredits  any  book  or  music  or  picture 
which  it  easily  enjoys.  She  was,  for  a  moment,  apologetic 
to  these  insistent  new  standards,  because  she  had  given 
herself  up  to  Mr.  Schwirtz's  low  conversation.  .  .  .  She 
was  not  vastly  different  from  a  young  lady  just  back  in 
Panama  from  a  term  in  the  normal  school,  with  new 
lights  derived  from  a  gentlemanly  young  English  teacher 
with  poetic  interests  and  a  curly  mustache. 

"Sure,"  affirmed  Mr.  Schwirtz,  "I  like  poetry  fine. 
Used  to  read  it  myself  when  I  was  traveling  out  of  St. 
Paul  and  got  kind  of  stuck  on  a  waitress  at  Eau  Claire." 
This  did  not  perfectly  satisfy  Una,  but  she  was  more 

[195] 


THE    JOB 

satisfied  that  he  had  heard  the  gospel  of  culture  after  he 
had  described,  with  much  detail,  his  enjoyment  of  a  "fella 
from  Boston,  perfessional  reciter;  they  say  he  writes  swell 
poetry  himself;  gave  us  a  program  of  Kipling  and  Ella 
Wheeler  Wilcox  before  the  Elks — real  poetic  fella." 

"Do  you  go  to  concerts,  symphonies,  and  so  on,  much?" 
Una  next  catechized. 

"Well,  no;  that's  where  I  fall  down.  Just  between  you 
and  I,  I  never  did  have  much  time  for  these  high-brows 
that  try  to  make  out  they're  so  darn  much  better  than 
common  folks  by  talking  about  motifs  and  symphony 
poems  and  all  that  long-haired  stuff.  Fellow  that's  in 
music  goods  took  me  to  a  Philharmonic  concert  once,  and 
I  couldn't  make  head  or  tail  of  the  stuff — conductor 
batting  a  poor  musician  over  the  ear  with  his  swagger- 
stick  (and  him  a  union  man,  oughta  kicked  to  his  union 
about  the  way  the  conductor  treated  him)  and  him  coming 
back  with  a  yawp  on  the  fiddle  and  getting  two  laps  ahead 
of  the  brass  band,  and  they  all  blowing  their  stuffings 
out  trying  to  catch  up.  Music  they  call  that!  And  once 
I  went  to  grand  opera — lot  of  fat  Dutchmen  all  singing 
together  like  they  was  selling  old  rags.  Aw  nix,  give  me 
one  of  the  good  old  songs  like  'The  Last  Rose  of  Summer.' 
...  I  bet  you  could  sing  that  so  that  even  a  sporting-goods 
drummer  would  cry  and  think  about  the  sweetheart  he 
had  when  he  was  a  kid." 

"No,  I  couldn't — I  can't  sing  a  note,"  Una  said,  de 
lightedly She  had  laughed  very  much  at  Mr.  Schwirtz's 

humor.  She  slid  down  in  her  chair  and  felt  more  expansive 
ly  peaceful  than  she  ever  had  been  in  the  stress  of  Walter 
Babson. 

"Straight,  now,  little  sister.  Own  up.  Don't  you  get 
more  fun  out  of  hearing  Raymond  Hitchcock  sing  than 
you  do  out  of  a  bunch  of  fiddles  and  flutes  fighting  out 

[196] 


THE    JOB 

a  piece  by  Vaugner  like  they  was  Kilkenny  cats?  'Fess 
up,  now;  don't  you  get  more  downright  amusement?" 

"Well,  maybe  I  do,  sometimes;  but  that  doesn't  mean 
that  all  this  cheap  musical  comedy  music  is  as  good  as 
opera,  and  so  on,  if  we  had  our — had  musical  educations — " 

"Oh  yes;  that's  what  they  all  say!  But  I  notice  that 
Hitchcock  and  George  M.  Cohan  go  on  drawing  big  audi 
ences  every  night — yes,  and  the  swellest,  best-dressed, 
smartest  people  in  New  York  and  Brooklyn,  too — it's 
in  the  gallery  at  the  opera  that  you  find  all  these  Wops  and 
Swedes  and  Lord  knows  what-all.  And  when  a  bunch  of 
people  are  out  at  a  lake,  say,  you  don't  ever  catch  'em 
singing  Vaugner  or  Lits  or  Gryge  or  any  of  them  guys. 
If  they  don't  sing,  'In  the  Good  Old  Summer-Time,' 
it's  'Old  Black  Joe,'  or  *  Nelly  Was  a  Lady,'  or  something 
that's  really  got  some  melody  to  it." 

The  neophyte  was  lured  from  her  new-won  altar.  Cold 
to  her  knees  was  the  barren  stone  of  the  shrine;  and  she 
feebly  recanted,  "Yes,  that's  so." 

Mr.  Schwirtz  cheerfully  took  out  a  cigar,  smelled  it, 
bit  it,  luxuriously  removed  the  band,  requested  permis 
sion  to  smoke,  lighted  the  cigar  without  waiting  for  an 
answer  to  that  request,  sighed  happily,  and  dived  again: 

"Not  that  I'm  knocking  the  high-brows,  y'  understand. 
This  dress-suit  music  is  all  right  for  them  that  likes  it. 
But  what  I  object  to  is  their  trying  to  stuff  it  down  my 
throat!  I  let  'em  alone,  and  if  I  want  to  be  a  poor  old 
low-brow  and  like  reg'lar  music,  I  don't  see  where  they 
get  off  to  be  telling  me  I  got  to  go  to  concerts.  Honest 
now,  ain't  that  the  truth?" 

"Oh  yes,  that  way— " 

"All  these  here  critics  telling  what  low-brows  us  Amer 
ican  business  men  are!  Just  between  you  and  I,  I  bet  I 
knock  down  more  good,  big,  round,  iron  men  every  week 

[197] 


THE   JOB 

than  nine-tenths  of  these  high-brow  fiddlers — yes,  and 
college  professors  and  authors,  too!" 

"Yes,  but  you  shouldn't  make  money  your  standard," 
said  Una,  in  company  with  the  invisible  chorus  of  Mamie 
Magen  and  Walter  Babson. 

"Well,  then,  what  are  you  going  to  make  a  standard?" 
asked  Mr.  Schwirtz,  triumphantly. 

"Well—"  said  Una. 

"Understan'  me;  I'm  a  high-brow  myself  some  ways. 
I  never  could  stand  these  cheap  magazines.  I'd  stop  the 
circulation  of  every  last  one  of  them;  pass  an  act  of  Con 
gress  to  make  every  voter  read  some  A-l,  high-class, 
intellectual  stuff.  I  read  Rev.  Henry  van  Dyke  and 
Newell  Dwight  Hillis  and  Herbert  Kaufman  and  Billy 
Sunday,  and  all  these  brainy,  inspirational  fellows,  and 
let  me  tell  you  I  get  a  lot  of  talking-points  for  selling  my 
trade  out  of  their  spiels,  too.  I  don't  believe  in  all  this 
cheap  fiction — these  nasty  realistic  stories  (like  all  the 
author  could  see  in  life  was  just  the  bad  side  of  things — 
I  tell  you  life's  bad  enough  without  emphasizing  the  rot 
ten  side,  all  these  unhappy  marriages  and  poverty  and 
everything — I  believe  if  you  can't  write  bright,  optimistic, 
cheerful  things,  better  not  write  at  all).  And  all  these 
sex  stories!  Don't  believe  in  'em!  Sensational!  Don't 
believe  in  cheap  literature  of  no  sort.  .  .  .  Oh,  of  course 
it's  all  right  to  read  a  coupla  detective  stories  or  a  nice, 
bright,  clean  love-story  just  to  pass  the  time  away.  But 
me,  I  like  real,  classy,  high-grade  writers,  with  none  of 
this  slangy  dialogue  or  vulgar  stuff.  'Specially  I  like  essays 
on  strenuous,  modern  American  life,  about  not  being  in 
a  rut,  but  putting  a  punch  in  life.  Yes,  sir!" 

"I'm  glad,"  said  Una.    "I  do  like  improving  books." 

"You've  said  it,  little  sister.  .  .  .  Say,  gee!   you  don't 

know  what  a  luxury  it  is  for  me  to  talk  about  books  and 

[198] 


THE    JOB 

literature  with  an  educated,  cultured  girl  like  you.  Now 
take  the  rest  of  these  people  here  at  the  farm — nice  folks, 
you  understand,  mighty  well-traveled,  broad-gauged,  in 
telligent  folks,  and  all  that.  There's  a  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Cannon;  he's  some  kind  of  an  executive  in  the  Chicago 
stock-yards — nice,  fat,  responsible  job.  And  he  was  say 
ing  to  me,  'Mr.  Schwirtz,'  he  says,  'Mrs.  C.  and  I  had 
never  been  to  New  England  till  this  summer,  but  we'd 
toured  every  other  part  of  the  country,  and  we've  done 
Europe  thoroughly  and  put  in  a  month  doing  Florida, 
and  now,'  he  says,  'I  think  we  can  say  we've  seen  every 
point  of  interest  that's  worth  an  American's  time.'  They're 
good  American  people  like  that,  well-traveled  and  nice 
folks.  But  books — Lord!  they  can't  talk  about  books  no 
more  than  a  Jersey  City  bartender.  So  you  can  imagine 
how  pleased  I  was  to  find  you  here.  .  .  .  World's  pretty 
small,  all  right.  Say,  I  just  got  here  yesterday,  so  I  sup 
pose  we'll  be  here  about  the  same  length  o'  time.  If  you 
wouldn't  think  I  was  presumptuous,  I'd  like  mighty  well 
to  show  you  some  of  the  country  around  here.  We  could 
get  up  a  picnic  party,  ten  or  a  dozen  of  us,  and  go  up  on 
Bald  Knob  and  see  the  scenery  and  have  a  real  jolly  time. 
And  I'd  be  glad  to  take  you  down  to  Lesterhampton — 
there's  a  real  old-fashioned  inn  down  there,  they  say, 
where  Paul  Revere  stayed  one  time;  they  say  you  can 
get  the  best  kind  of  fried  chicken  and  corn  on  cob  and 
real  old-fashioned  New  England  blueberry  pie.  Would 
you  like  to?" 

"Why,  I  should  be  very  pleased  to,"  said  Una. 

§2 

Mr.  Schwirtz  seemed  to  know  everybody  at  the  farm. 
He  had  been  there  only  thirty-six  hours,  but  already  he 

[199] 


THE    JOB 

called  Mr.  Cannon  "Sam,"  and  knew  that  Miss  Vincent's 
married  sister's  youngest  child  had  recently  passed  away 
with  a  severe  and  quite  unexpected  attack  of  cholera 
morbus.  Mr.  Schwirtz  introduced  Una  to  the  others  so 
fulsomely  that  she  was  immediately  taken  into  the  inner 
political  ring.  He  gave  her  a  first  lesson  in  auction  pin 
ochle  also.  They  had  music  and  recitations  at  ten,  and 
Una's  shyness  was  so  warmed  away  that  she  found  her 
self  reciting,  "I'm  Only  Mammy's  Pickaninny  Coon." 

She  went  candle-lighted  up  to  a  four-poster  bed.  As 
she  lay  awake,  her  job-branded  mind  could  not  keep  en 
tirely  away  from  the  office,  the  work  she  would  have  to 
do  when  she  returned,  the  familiar  series  of  indefinite 
worries  and  disconnected  office  pictures.  But  mostly  she 
let  the  rustle  of  the  breathing  land  inspirit  her  while  she 
thought  of  Mr.  Julius  Edward  Schwirtz. 

She  knew  that  he  was  ungrammatical,  but  she  denied 
that  he  was  uncouth.  His  deep  voice  had  been  very 
kindly;  his  clipped  mustache  was  trim;  his  nails,  which 
had  been  ragged  at  that  commercial-college  lunch,  were 
manicured  now;  he  was  sure  of  himself,  while  Walter 
Babson  doubted  and  thrashed  about.  All  of  which  meant 
that  the  tired  office-woman  was  touchily  defensive  of  the 
man  who  liked  her. 

She  couldn't  remember  just  where  she  had  learned  it, 
but  she  knew  that  Mr.  Schwirtz  was  a  widower. 

§3 

The  fact  that  she  did  not  have  to  get  up  and  go  to  the 
office  was  Una's  chief  impression  at  awakening,  but  she 
was  not  entirely  obtuse  to  the  morning,  to  the  chirp  of  a 
robin,  the  cluck  of  the  hens,  the  creak  of  a  hay-wagon, 
and  the  sweet  smell  of  cattle.  When  she  arose  she  looked 

[2001 


THE    JOB 

down  a  slope  of  fields  so  far  away  that  they  seemed  smooth 
as  a  lawn.  Solitary,  majestic  trees  cast  long  shadows  over 
a  hilly  pasture  of  crisp  grass  worn  to  inviting  paths  by 
the  cropping  cattle.  Beyond  the  valley  was  a  range  of 
the  Berkshires  with  every  tree  distinct. 

Una  was  tired,  but  the  morning's  radiance  inspired  her. 
"My  America — so  beautiful!    Why  do  we  turn  you  into  / 
stuffy  offices  and  ugly  towns?"  she  marveled  while  she/ 
was  dressing. 

But  as  breakfast  was  not  ready,  her  sudden  wish  to  do 
something  magnificent  for  America  turned  into  what  she 
called  a  "  bef ore-coffee  grouch,"  and  she  sat  on  the  porch 
waiting  for  the  bell,  and  hoping  that  the  conversational 
Mr.  Schwirtz  wouldn't  come  and  converse.  It  was  to 
his  glory  that  he  didn't.  He  appeared  in  masterful 
white-flannel  trousers  and  a  pressed  blue  coat  and  a  new 
Panama,  which  looked  well  on  his  fleshy  but  trim  head. 
He  said,  "Mornin',"  cheerfully,  and  went  to  prowl  about 
the  farm. 

All  through  the  breakfast  Una  caught  the  effulgence  of 
Mr.  Schwirtz's  prosperous-looking  solidness,  and  almost 
persuaded  herself  that  his  jowls  and  the  slabs  of  fat  along 
his  neck  were  powerful  muscles. 

He  asked  her  to  play  croquet.  Una  played  a  game  which 
had  been  respected  in  the  smartest  croqueting  circles  of 
Panama;  she  defeated  him;  and  while  she  blushed  and 
insisted  that  he  ought  to  have  won,  Mr.  Schwirtz  chuckled 
about  his  defeat  and  boasted  of  it  to  the  group  on  the 
porch. 

"I  was  afraid,"  he  told  her,  "I  was  going  to  find  this 
farm  kinda  tame.  Usually  expect  a  few  more  good  fellows 
and  highballs  in  mine,  but  thanks  to  you,  little  sister, 
looks  like  I'll  have  a  bigger  time  than  a  high-line  poker 
party." 

14  [2011 


THE    JOB 

He  seemed  deeply  to  respect  her,  and  Una,  who  had 
never  had  the  debutante's  privilege  of  ordering  men 
about,  who  had  avoided  Henry  Carson  and  responded  to 
Walter  Babson'and  obeyed  chiefs  in  offices,  was  now  at 
last  demanding  that  privilege.  She  developed  feminine 
whims  and  desires.  She  asked  Mr.  Schwirtz  to  look  for  her 
handkerchief,  and  bring  her  magazine,  and  arrange  her 
chair  cushions,  and  take  her  for  a  walk  to  "the  Glade." 

He  obeyed  breathlessly. 

Following  an  old  and  rutted  woodland  road  to  the 
Glade,  they  passed  a  Berkshire  abandoned  farm — a  solid 
house  of  stone  and  red  timbers,  softened  by  the  long  grasses 
that  made  the  orchard  a  pleasant  place.  They  passed 
berry-bushes — raspberry  and  blackberry  and  currant,  now 
turned  wild;  green-gold  bushes  that  were  a  net  for  sun 
beams.  They  saw  yellow  warblers  flicker  away,  a  king 
bird  swoop,  a  scarlet  tanager  glisten  in  flight. 

"Wonder  what  that  red  bird  is?"  He  admiringly  looked 
to  her  to  know. 

"Why,  I  think  that's  a  cardinal." 

"Golly!  I  wish  I  knew  about  nature." 

"  So  do  I !    I  don't  really  know  a  thing — " 

"Huh!  I  bet  you  do!" 

— though  I  ought  to,  living  in  a  small  town  so  long. 
I'd  planned  to  buy  me  a  bird-book,"  she  rambled  on, 
giddy  with  sunshine,  "and  a  flower-book  and  bring  them 
along,  but  I  was  so  busy  getting  away  from  the  office  that 
I  came  off  without  them.  Don't  you  just  love  to  know 
about  birds  and  things?" 

"  Yuh,  I  cer'nly  do;  I  cer'nly  do.  Say,  this  beats  New 
York,  eh?  I  don't  care  if  I  never  see  another  show  or  a 
cocktail.  Cer'nly  do  beat  New  York.  Cer'nly  does!  I 
was  saying  to  Sam  Cannon,  'Lord,'  I  says,  'I  wonder  what 
a  fellow  ever  stays  in  the  city  for;  never  catch  me  there 

[202] 


THE   JOB 

if  I  could  rake  in  the  coin  out  in  the  country,  no,  sir!' 
And  he  laughed  and  said  he  guessed  it  was  the  same  way 
with  him.  No,  sir;  my  idea  of  perfect  hapfpiness  is  to  be 
hiking  along  here  with  you,  Miss  Golden." 

He  gazed  down  upon  her  with  a  mixture  of  amorousness 
and  awe.  The  leaves  of  scrub-oaks  along  the  road  crin 
kled  and  shone  in  the  sun.  She  was  lulled  to  slumberous 
content.  She  lazily  beamed  her  pleasure  back  at  him, 
though  a  tiny  hope  that  he  would  be  circumspect,  not  be 
too  ardent,  stirred  in  her.  He  was  touching  in  his  desire 
to  express  his  interest  without  ruffling  her.  He  began  to 
talk  about  Miss  Vincent's  affair  with  Mr.  Starr,  the 
wealthy  old  boarder  at  the  farm.  In  that  topic  they  passed 
safely  through  the  torrid  wilderness  of  summer  shine  and 
tangled  blooms . 

The  thwarted  boyish  soul  that  persisted  in  Mr. 
Schwirtz's  barbered,  unexercised,  coffee-soaked,  tobacco- 
filled,  whisky-rotted,  fattily  degenerated  city  body  shone 
through  his  red- veined  eyes.  He  was  having  a  fete  ckam- 
petre.  He  gathered  berries  and  sang  all  that  he  remem 
bered  of  "Nut  Brown  Ale,"  and  chased  a  cow  and  pantingly 
stopped  under  a  tree  and  smoked  a  cigar  as  though  he  en 
joyed  it.  In  his  simple  pleasure  Una  was  glad.  She  ad 
mired  him  when  he  showed  his  trained,  professional  side 
and  explained  (with  rather  confusing  details)  why  the 
^Etna  Automobile  Varnish  Company  was  a  success.  But 
she  fluttered  up  to  her  feet,  became  the  wilful  debutante 
again,  and  commanded,  "Come  on,  Mr.  Slow!  We'll 
never  reach  the  Glade."  He  promptly  struggled  up  to  his 
feet.  There  was  lordly  devotion  in  the  way  he  threw 
away  his  half-smoked  cigar.  It  indicated  perfect  chiv 
alry.  .  .  .  Even  though  he  did  light  another  in  about 
three  minutes. 

The  Glade  was  filled  with  a  pale-green  light;     arching 

[2031 


THE    JOB 

trees  shut  off  the  heat  of  the  summer  afternoon,  and  the 
leaves  shone  translucent.  Ferns  were  in  wild  abundance. 
They  sat  on  a  fallen  tree,  thick  upholstered  with  moss, 
and  listened  to  the  trickle  of  a  brook.  Una  was  utterly 
happy.  In  her  very  weariness  there  was  a  voluptuous 
feeling  that  the  air  was  dissolving  the  stains  of  the  office. 

He  urged  a  compliment,  upon  her  only  once  more  that 
day;  but  she  gratefully  took  it  to  bed  with  her:  "You're 
just  like  this  glade — make  a  fellow  feel  kinda  calm  and 
want  to  be  good,"  he  said.  "  I'm  going  to  cut  out — all  this 
boozing  and  stuff —  Course  you  understand  I  never  make 
a  habit  of  them  things,  but  still  a  fellow  on  the  road — " 

"Yes,"  said  Una. 

All  evening  they  discussed  croquet,  Lenox,  Florida, 
Miss  Vincent  and  Mr.  Starr,  the  presidential  campaign, 
and  the  food  at  the  farm-house.  Boarders  from  the  next 
farm-house  came  a-calling,  and  the  enlarged  company 
discussed  the  food  at  both  of  the  farm-houses,  the  presi 
dential  campaign,  Florida,  and  Lenox.  The  men  and 
women  gradually  separated;  relieved  of  the  strain  of 
general  and  polite  conversation,  the  men  gratefully  talked 
about  business  conditions  and  the  presidential  campaign 
and  food  and  motoring,  and  told  sly  stories  about  Mike 
and  Pat,  or  about  Ikey  and  Jakey;  while  the  women  lis 
tened  to  Mrs.  Cannon's  stories  about  her  youngest  son, 
and  compared  notes  on  cooking,  village  improvement 
societies,  and  what  Mrs.  Taft  would  do  in  Washington 
society  if  Judge  Taft  was  elected  President.  Miss  Vincent 
had  once  shaken  hands  with  Judge  Taft,  and  she  occasion 
ally  referred  to  the  incident.  Mrs.  Cannon  took  Una 
aside  and  told  her  that  she  thought  Mr.  Starr  and  Miss 
Vincent  must  have  walked  down  to  the  village  together 
that  afternoon,  as  she  had  distinctly  seen  them  coming 
back  up  the  road. 

[204] 


THE    JOB 

Yet  Una  did  not  feel  Panama-ized. 

She  was  a  grown-up  person,  accepted  as  one,  not  as 
Mrs.  Golden's  daughter;  and  her  own  gossip  now  passed 
at  par. 

And  all  evening  she  was  certain  that  Mr.  Schwirtz  was 
watching  her. 


The  boarders  from  the  two  farm-houses  organized  a 
tremendous  picnic  on  Bald  Knob,  with  sandwiches  and 
chicken  salad  and  cake  and  thermos  bottles  of  coffee  and 
a  whole  pail  of  beans  and  a  phonograph  with  seven  records ; 
with  recitations  and  pastoral  merriment  and  kodaks  snap 
ping  every  two  or  three  minutes;  with  groups  sitting 
about  on  blankets,  and  once  in  a  while  some  one  explain 
ing  why  the  scenery  was  so  scenic.  Una  had  been  anxious 
lest  Mr.  Schwirtz  "pay  her  too  marked  attentions;  make 
them  as  conspicuous  as  Mr.  Starr  and  Miss  Vincent"; 
for  in  the  morning  he  had  hung  about,  waiting  for  a  game 
of  croquet  with  her.  But  Mr.  Schwirtz  was  equally  pleas 
ant  to  her,  to  Miss  Vincent,  and  to  Mrs.  Cannon;  and 
he  was  attractively  ardent  regarding  the  scenery.  "This 
cer'nly  beats  New  York,  eh?  Especially  you  being  here," 
he  said  to  her,  aside. 

They  sang  >ballads  about  the  fire  at  dusk,  and  trailed 
home  along  dark  paths  that  smelled  of  pungent  leaf-mold. 
Mr.  Schwirtz  lumbered  beside  her,  heaped  with  blankets 
and  pails  and  baskets  till  he  resembled  a  camel  in  a  cara 
van,  and  encouraged  her  to  tell  how  stupid  and  unenter 
prising  Mr.  Troy  Wilkins  was.  When  they  reached  the 
farm-house  the  young  moon  and  the  great  evening  star 
were  low  in  a  wash  of  turquoise  above  misty  meadows; 
frogs  sang;  Una  promised  herself  a  long  and  unworried 
sleep;  and  the  night  tingled  with  an  indefinable  magic.. 

[205] 


THE   JOB 

She  was  absolutely,  immaculately  happy,  for  the  first 
time  since  she  had  been  ordered  to  take  Walter  Babson's 
dictation. 

§5 

Mr.  Schwirtz  was  generous;  he  invited  all  the  boarders 
to  a  hay-ride  picnic  at  Hawkins's  Pond,  followed  by  a 
barn  dance.  He  took  Una  and  the  Cannons  for  a  motor 
ride,  and  insisted  on  buying  —  not  giving,  but  buying  — 
dinner  for  them,  at  the  Lesterhampton  Inn. 

When  the  debutante  Una  bounced  and  said  she  did 
wish  she  had  some  candy,  he  trudged  down  to  the 
village  and  bought  for  her  a  two-pound  box  of  exciting 
chocolates.  And  when  she  longed  to  know  how  to  play 
tennis,  he  rented  balls  and  two  rackets,  tried  to  remember 
what  he  had  learned  in  two  or  three  games  of  ten  years 
before,  and  gave  her  elaborate  explanations.  Lest  the 
farm-house  experts  (Mr.  Cannon  was  said  by  Mrs.  Cannon 
to  be  one  of  the  very  best  players  at  the  Winnetka  Coun 
try  Club)  see  them,  Una  and  Mr.  Schwirtz  sneaked  out 
before  breakfast.  Their  tennis  costumes  consisted  of  new 
canvas  shoes.  They  galloped  through  the  dew  and 
swatted  at  balls  ferociously  —  two  happy  dubs  who  proudly 
all  the  tennis  terms  they  knew. 


Mr.  Schwirtz  was  always  there  when  she  wanted  him, 
but  he  never  intruded,  he  never  was  urgent.  She  kept 
him  away  for  a  week;  but  in  their  second  week  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Cannon,  Mr.  Starr,  Miss  Vincent,  and  the  pleasant 
couple  from  Gloversville  all  went  away,  and  Una  and  Mr. 
Schwirtz  became  the  elder  generation,  the  seniors,  of  the 

boarders.    They  rather  looked  down  upon  the  new  board- 

[206] 


THE    JOB 

ers  who  came  in — tenderfeet,  people  who  didn't  know 
about  Bald  Knob  or  the  Glade  or  Hawkins's  Pond,  people 
who  weren't  half  so  witty  or  comfy  as  the  giants  of  those 
golden,  olden  days  when  Mr.  Cannon  had  ruled.  Una 
and  Mr.  Schwirtz  deigned  to  accompany  them  on  picnics, 
even  grew  interested  in  their  new  conceptions  of  the 
presidential  campaign  and  croquet  and  food,  yet  held 
rather  aloof,  as  became  the  ancien  regime;  took  confiden 
tial  walks  together,  and  in  secret  laughed  enormously 
when  the  green  generation  gossiped  about  them  as  though 
they  were  "interested  in  each  other,"  as  Mr.  Starr  and 
Miss  Vincent  had  been  in  the  far-forgotten  time.  Una 
blushed  a  little  when  she  discovered  that  every  one 
thought  they  were  engaged,  but  she  laughed  at  the 
rumor,  and  she  laughed  again,  a  nervous  young  laugh, 
as  she  repeated  it  to  Mr.  Schwirtz. 

"Isn't  it  a  shame  the  way  people  gossip!  Silly  billies," 
she  said.  "We  never  talked  that  way  about  Mr.  Starr 
and  Miss  Vincent — though  in  their  case  we  would  have 
been  justified." 

"Yes,  bet  they  were  engaged.  Oh,  say,  did  I  tell  you 
about  the  first  day  I  came  here,  and  Starr  took  me  aside, 
and  says  he — " 

In  their  hour-long  talks  Mr.  Schwirtz  had  not  told 
much  about  himself,  though  of  his  business  he  had  talked 
often.  But  on  an  afternoon  when  they  took  a  book  and 
a  lunch  and  tramped  off  to  a  round-topped,  grassy  hill, 
he  finally  confided  in  her,  and  her  mild  interest  in  him 
as  an  amiable  companion  deepened  to  sympathy. 

The  book  was  The  People  of  the  Abyss,  by  Jack  London, 
which  Mamie  Magen  had  given  to  Una  as  an  introduc 
tion  to  a  knowledge  of  social  conditions.  Una  had  planned 
to  absorb  it;  to  learn  how  the  shockingly  poor  live. 
Now  she  read  the  first  four  pages  to  Mr.  Schwirtz.  After 

[207] 


THE    JOB 

each  page  he  said  that  he  was  interested.  At  the  end  of 
the  fourth  page,  when  Una  stopped  for  breath,  he  com 
mented:  "Fine  writer,  that  fella  London.  And  they  say 
•  he's  quite  a  fella;  been  a  sailor  and  a  miner  and  all  kinds 
of  things;  ver'  intimate  friend  of  mine  knows  him  quite 
well — met  him  in  'Frisco — and  he  says  he's  been  a  sailor 
and  all  kinds  of  things.  But  he's  a  socialist.  Tell  you, 
I  ain't  got  much  time  for  these  socialists.  Course  I'm 
kind  of  a  socialist  myself  lots-a  ways,  but  these  here 
fellas  that  go  around  making  folks  discontented — !  Agita 
tors — !  Don't  suppose  it's  that  way  with  this  London — 
he  must  be  pretty  well  fixed,  and  so  of  course  he's  prob'ly 
growing  conservative  and  sensible.  But  most  of  these 
socialists  are  just  a  lazy  bunch  of  bums  that  try  and  see 
how  much  trouble  they  can  stir  up.  They  think  that  just 
because  they're  too  lazy  to  find  an  opening,  that  they 
got  the  right  to  take  the  money  away  from  the  fellas  that 
hustle  around  and  make  good.  Trouble  with  all  these 
socialist  guys  is  that  they  don't  stop  to  realize  that  you 
can't  change  human  nature.  They  want  to  take  away 
all  the  rewards  for  initiative  and  enterprise,  just  as  Sam 
Cannon  was  saying.  Do  you  s'pose  I'd  work  my  head  off 
putting  a  proposition  through  if  there  wasn't  anything  in 
it  for  me?  Then,  'nother  thing,  about  all  this  submerged 
tenth — these  *  People  of  the  Abyss,'  and  all  the  rest:  I 
don't  feel  a  darn  bit  sorry  for  them.  They  stick  in  London 
or  New  York  or  wherever  they  are,  and  live  on  charity  ? 
and  if  you  offered  'em  a  good  job  they  wouldn't  take  it. 
Why,  look  here!  all  through  the  Middle  West  the  farmers 

(are  just  looking  for  men  at  three  dollars  a  day,  and  for 
hired  girls,  they'd  give  hired  girls  three  and  four  dollars 
a  week  and  a  good  home.  But  do  all  these  people  go  out 
and  get  the  jobs?  Not  a  bit  of  it!  They'd  rather  stay 
home  and  yelp  about  socialism  and  anarchism  and  Lord 

[208] 


i 


THE    JOB 

knows  what-all.  'Nother  thing:  I  never  could  figger  out 
what  all  these  socialists  and  I.  W.  W.'s,  these  *I  Won't  j 
Work's,'  would  do  if  we  did  divide  up  and  hand  all  the 
industries  over  to  them.  I  bet  they'd  be  the  very  first 
ones  to  kick  for  a  return  to  the  old  conditions !  I  tell  you, 
it  surprises  me  when  a  good,  bright  man  like  Jack  London 
or  this  fella,  Upton  Sinclair — they  say  he's  a  well-educated 
fella,  too — don't  stop  and  realize  these  things." 

"But—"  said  Una. 

Then  she  stopped.  »-~- 

Her  entire  knowledge  of  socialism  was  comprised  in  the 
fact  that  Mamie  Magen  believed  in  it,  and  that  Walter  / 
Babson  alternated  between  socialism,  anarchism,  and  a  I 
desire  to  own  a  large  house  in  Westchester  and  write 
poetry  and  be  superior  to  the  illiterate  mass.    So  to  the 
economic  spokesman  for  the  Great  American  Business  j 
Man  her  answer  was: 

"But—" 

*  "Then  look  here,"  said  Mr.  Schwirtz.  "Take  yourself.' 
S'pose  you  like  to  work  eight  hours  a  day?  Course  you 
don't.  Neither  do  I.  I  always  thought  I'd  like  to  be  a 
gentleman  farmer  and  take  it  easy.  But  the  good  Lord 
saw  fit  to  stick  us  into  these  jobs,  that's  all  we  know 
about  it;  and  we  do  our  work  and  don't  howl  about  it 
like  all  these  socialists  and  radicals  and  other  wind 
jammers  that  know  more  than  the  Constitution  and  Con 
gress  and  a  convention  of  Philadelphia  lawyers  put  to 
gether.  You  don't  want  to  work  as  hard  as  you  do  and 
then  have  to  divide  up  every  Saturday  with  some  lazy 
bum  of  a  socialist  that's  too  lazy  to  support  himself — 
yes,  or  to  take  a  bath! — now  do  you?" 

"Well,  no,"  Una  admitted,  in  face  of  this  triumphant 
exposure  of  liberal  fallacies. 

The  book  slipped  into  her  lap. 

[209] 


THE    JOB 

"How  wonderful  that  line  of  big  woolly  clouds  is,  there 
between  the  two  mountains !"  she  said.  "I'd  just  like  to 
fly  through  them.  ...  I  am  tired.  The  clouds  rest  me  so." 

"  Course  you're  tired,  little  sister.  You  just  forget  about 
all  those  guys  in  the  abyss.  Tell  you  a  person  on  the  job's 
got  enough  to  do  looking  out  for  himself." 

"Well—"  said  Una. 

Suddenly  she  lay  back,  her  hands  behind  her  head,  her 
fingers  outstretched  among  the  long,  cool  grasses.  A  hum 
of  insects  surrounded  her.  The  grasses  towering  above  her 
eyes  were  a  forest.  She  turned  her  head  to  watch  a  lady- 
bug  industriously  ascend  one  side  of  a  blade  of  grass,  and 
with  equal  enterprise  immediately  descend  the  other  side. 
With  the  office  always  in  her  mind  as  material  for  meta 
phors,  Una  compared  the  lady-bug's  method  to  Troy 
Wilkins's  habit  of  having  his  correspondence  filed  and 
immediately  calling  for  it  again.  She  turned  her  face  to 
the  sky.  She  was  uplifted  by  the  bold  contrast  of  cumulus 
clouds  and  the  radiant  blue  sky. 

Here  she  could  give  herself  up  to  rest;  she  was  so  t:  scure 
now,  with  the  affable  Mr.  Schwirtz  to  guard  her  against 
outsiders — more  secure  and  satisfied,  she  reflected,  than 
she  could  ever  have  been  with  Walter  Babson.  ...  A 
hawk  soared  above  her,  a  perfect  thing  of  sun-brightened 
grace,  the  grasses  smelled  warm  and  pleasant,  and  under 
her  beat  the  happy  heart  of  the  summer  land. 

"I'm  a  poor  old  rough-neck,"  said  Mr.  Schwirtz,  "but 
to-day,  up  here  with  you,  I  feel  so  darn  good  that  I  almost 
think  I'm  a  decent  citizen.  Honest,  little  sister,  I  haven't 
felt  so  bully  for  a  blue  moon." 

"Yes,  and  I—"  she  said. 

He  smoked,  while  she  almost  drowsed  into  slumber  to 
the  lullaby  of  the  afternoon. 

When  a  blackbird  chased  a  crow  above  her,  and  she 

1210] 


THE    JOB 

sat  up  to  watch  the  aerial  privateering,  Mr.  Schwirtz 
began  to  talk. 

He  spoke  of  the  flight  of  the  Wright  brothers  in  France 
and  Virginia,  which  were  just  then — in  the  summer  of 
1908 — arousing  the  world  to  a  belief  in  aviation.  He  had 
as  positive  information  regarding  aeroplanes  as  he  had 
regarding  socialism.  It  seemed  that  a  man  who  was  tre 
mendously  on  the  inside  of  aviation — who  was,  in  fact, 
going  to  use  whole  tons  of  aeroplane  varnish  on  aeroplane 
bodies,  next  month  or  next  season — had  given  Mr. 
Schwirtz  secret  advices  that  within  five  years,  by  1913, 
aeroplanes  would  be  crossing  the  Atlantic  daily,  and  con 
veying  passengers  and  mail  on  regular  routes  between 

New  York  and  Chicago "Though,"  said  Mr.  Schwirtz, 

in  a  sophisticated  way,  "I  don't  agree  with  these  crazy 
enthusiasts  that  believe  aeroplanes  will  be  used  in  war. 
Too  easy  to  shoot  'em  down."  His  information  was  so 
sound -that  he  had  bought  a  hundred  shares  of  stock  in 
his  customer's  company.  In  on  the  ground  floor.  Stock 
at  th  je  dollars  a  share.  Would  be  worth  two  hundred  a 
share  the  minute  they  started  regular  passenger-carrying. 

"But  at  that,  I  only  took  a  hundred  shares.  I  don't 
believe  in  all  this  stock-gambling.  What  I  want  is  sound, 
conservative  investments,"  said  Mr.  Schwirtz. 

"Yes,  I  should  think  you'd  be  awfully  practical," 
mused  Una.  "My!  three  dollars  to  two  hundred!  You'll 
make  an  awful  lot  out  of  it." 

"  Well,  now,  I'm  not  saying  anything.  I  don't  pretend 
to  be  a  Wisenheimer.  May  be  nine  or  ten  years — nineteen 
seventeen  or  nineteen  eighteen — before  we  are  doing  a 
regular  business.  And  at  that,  the  shares  may  never  go 
above  par.  But  still,  I  guess  I'm  middlin'  practical — not 
like  these  socialists,  ha,  ha!" 

"How  did  you  ever  get  your  commercial  training?" 
[211] 


THE   JOB 

The  question  encouraged  him  to  tell  the  story  of  his  life. 

Mostly  it  was  a  story  of  dates  and  towns  and  jobs — 
jobs  he  had  held  and  jobs  from  which  he  had  resigned, 
and  all  the  crushing  things  he  had  said  to  the  wicked 
bosses  during  those  victorious  resignings.  .  .  .  Clerk  in  a 
general  store,  in  a  clothing-store,  in  a  hardware-store — 
all  these  in  Ohio.  A  quite  excusable,  almost  laudable, 
failure  in  his  own  hardware-store  in  a  tiny  Wisconsin 
town.  Half  a  dozen  clerkships.  Collector  for  a  harvester 
company  in  Nebraska,  going  from  farm  to  farm  by  buggy. 
Traveling  salesman  for  a  St.  Paul  wholesaler,  for  a  Chicago 
clothing-house.  Married.  Partner  with  his  brother-in- 
law  in  a  drug,  paint,  and  stationery  store.  Traveling  for 
a  Boston  paint-house.  For  the  L  wry  Paint  Company 
of  Jersey  City.  Now  with  the  automobile  wax  company. 
A  typical  American  business  career,  he  remarked,  though 
somehow  distinctive,  different —  A  guiding  star — 

Una  listened  murmuringly,  and  he  was  encouraged  to 
try  to  express  the  inner  life  behind  his  jobs.  Hesitatingly 
he  sought  to  make  vivid  his  small-boy  life  in  the  hills  of 
West  Virginia:  carving  initials,  mowing  lawns,  smoking 
corn  silk,  being  arrested  on  Hallowe'en,  his  father's  death, 
a  certain  Irving  who  was  his  friend,  "carrying  a  paper 
route"  during  two  years  of  high  school.  His  determina 
tion  to  "make  something  of  himself."  His  arrival  in 
Columbus,  Ohio,  with  just  seventy-eight  cents — he  em 
phasized  it:  "just  seventy -eight  cents,  that's  every  red 
cent  I  had,  when  I  started  out  to  look  for  a  job,  and  I 
didn't  know  a  single  guy  in  town."  His  reading  of  books 
during  the  evenings  of  his  first  years  in  Ohio;  he  didn't 
"remember  their  titles,  exactly,"  he  said,  but  he  was  sure 
that  "he  read  a  lot  of  them."  ...  At  last  he  spoke  of  his 
wife,  of  their  buggy-riding,  of  their  neat  frame  house  with 
the  lawn  and  the  porch  swing.  Of  their  quarrels — he 

[212] 


THE   JOB 

made  it  clear  that  his  wife  had  been  "finicky,"  and  had 
"fool  notions,"  but  he  praised  her  for  having  " come  around 
and  learned  that  a  man  is  a  man,  and  sometimes  he  means 
a  lot  better  than  it  looks  like;  prob'ly  he  loves  her  a  lot 
better  than  a  lot  of  these  plush-soled,  soft-tongued  fel 
lows  that  give  'em  a  lot  of  guff  and  lovey-dovey  stuff  and 
don't  shell  out  the  cash.  She  was  a  good  sport — one  of  the 
best." 

Of  the  death  of  their  baby  boy. 

"He  was  the  brightest  little  kid — everybody  loved  him. 
When  I  came  home  tired  at  night  he  would  grab  my  finger 
— see,  this  first  finger — and  hold  it,  and  want  me  to  show 
him  the  bunny-book.  ^.  .  And  then  he  died." 

Mr.  Schwirtz  told  it  simply,  looking  at  clouds  spread  on 
the  blue  sky  like  a  thrown  handful  of  white  paint. 

Una  had  hated  the  word  "widower";  it  had  suggested 
Henry  Carson  and  the  Panama  undertaker  and  funerals 
and  tired  men  trying  to  wash  children  and  looking  for  a 
new  wife  to  take  over  that  work;  all  the  smell  and  grease 
of  disordered  side-street  kitchens.  To  her,  now,  Julius 
Edward  Schwirtz  was  not  a  flabby-necked  widower,  but 
a  man  who  mourned,  who  felt  as  despairingly  as  could 
Walter  Babson  the  loss  of  the  baby  who  had  crowed  over 
the  bunny-book.  She,  the  motherless,  almost  loved  him 
as  she  stood  with  him  in  the  same  depth  of  human  grief. 
And  she  cried  a  little,  secretly,  and  thought  of  her  longing 
for  the  dead  mother,  as  he  gently  went  on: 

"My  wife  died  a  year  later.  I  couldn't  get  over  it; 
seemed  like  I  could  have  killed  myself  when  I  thought  of 
any  mean  thing  I  might  have  said  to  her — not  meaning 
anything,  but  hasty-like,  as  a  man  will.  Couldn't  seem 
to  get  over  it.  Evenings  were  just  hell;  they  were  so — 
empty.  Even  when  I  was  out  on  the  road,  there  wasn't 
anybody  to  write  to,  anybody  that  cared.  Just  sit  in  a 

[213] 


THE    JOB  / 

hotel  room  and  think  about  her.  And  I  just  couldn't 
realize  that  she  was  gone.  Do  you  know,  Miss  Golden, 
for  months,  whenever  I  was  coming  back  to  Boston  from 
a  trip,  it  was  her  I  was  coming  back  to,  seemed  like,  even 
though  I  'knew  she  wasn't  there — yes,  and  evenings  at  home 
when  I'd  be  sitting  there  reading,  I'd  think  I  heard  her 
step,  and  I'd  look  up  and  smile — and  she  wouldn't  be 
there;  she  wouldn't  ever  be  there  again.  .  .  .  She  was  a 
lot  like  you — same  cute,  bright  sort  of  a  little  woman, 
with  light  hair — yes,  even  the  same  eye-glasses.  I  think 
maybe  that's  why  I  noticed  you  particular  when  I  first 
met  you  at  that  lunch  and  remembered  you  so  well  after 
ward.  .  .  .  Though  you're  really  a  lot  brighter  and  better 
educated  than  what  she  was — I  can  see  it  now.  I  don't 
mean  no  disrespect  to  her;  she  was  a  good  sport;  they 
don't  make  'em  any  better  or  finer  or  truer;  but  she 
hadn't  never  had  much  chance;  she  wasn't  educated  or  a 
live  wire,  like  you  are.  . . .  You  don't  mind  my  saying  that, 
do  you?  How  you  mean  to  me  what  she  meant — " 

"No,  I'm  glad — "  she  whispered. 

Unlike  the  nimble  Walter  Babson,  Mr.  Schwirtz  did 
not  make  the  revelation  of  his  tragedy  an  excuse  for  try 
ing  to  stir  her  to  passion.  But  he  had  taken  and  he  held 
her  hand  among  the  long  grasses,  and  she  permitted  it. 

That  was  all. 

He  did  not  arouse  her;  still  was  it  Walter's  dark  head 
and  the  head  of  Walter's  baby  that  she  wanted  to  cradle 
on  her  breast.  But  for  Mr.  Schwirtz  she  felt  a  good  will 
that  was  broad  as  the  summer  afternoon. 

"I  am  very  glad  you  told  me.  I  do  understand.  I  lost 
my  mother  just  a  year  ago,"  she  said,  softly. 

He  squeezed  her  hand  and  sighed,  "Thank  you,  little 
sister."  Then  he  rose  and  more  briskly  announced,  "Get 
ting  late — better  be  hiking,  I  guess." 

1214] 


THE    JOB 

Not  again  did  he  even  touch  her  hand.  But  on  his  last 
night  at  the  farm-house  he  begged,  "May  I  come  to  call 
on  you  in  New  York?"  and  she  said,  "Yes,  please  do." 

She  stayed  for  a  day  after  his  departure,  a  long  and 
lonely  Sunday.  She  walked  five  miles  by  herself.  She 
thought  of  the  momently  more  horrible  fact  that  vaca 
tion  was  over,  that  the  office  would  engulf  her  again. 
She  declared  to  herself  that  two  weeks  were  just  long 
enough  holiday  to  rest  her,  to  free  her  from  the  office; 
not  long  enough  to  begin  to  find  positive  joy. 

Between  shudders  before  the  swiftly  approaching  office 
she  thought  of  Mr.  Schwirtz.  (She  still  called  him  that 
to  herself.  She  couldn't  fit  "  Eddie  "  to  his  trim  bulkiness, 
his  maturity.) 

She  decided  that  he  was  wrong  about  socialism;  she 
feebly  tried  to  see  wherein,  and  determined  to  consult 
her  teacher  in  ideals,  Mamie  Magen,  regarding  the  proper 
answers  to  him.  She  was  sure  that  he  was  rather  crude 
in  manners  and  speech,  rather  boastful,  somewhat  lo 
quacious. 

"But  I  do  like  him!"  she  cried  to  the  hillsides  and  the 
free  sky.     "He  would  take  care  of  me.    He's  kind;   and 
he  would  learn.    We'll  go  to  concerts  and  things  like  that 
in  New  York — dear  me,  I  guess  I  don't  know  any  too^ 
much  about  art  things  myself.     I  don't  know  why,  b"utj  V 
even  if  he  isn't  interesting,  like  Mamie  Magen,  I  likq/\ 
him— I  think!" 

§7 

On  the  train  back  to  New  York,  early  Monday  morning, 
she  felt  so  fresh  and  fit,  with  morning  vigorous  in  her  and 
about  her,  that  she  relished  the  thought  of  attacking  the 
job.  Why,  she  rejoiced,  every  fiber  of  her  was  simply 
soaked  with  holiday;  she  was  so  much  stronger  and  hap- 

[215] 


THE    JOB 

pier;  New  York  and  the  business  world  simply  couldn't 
be  the  same  old  routine,  because  she  herself  was  different. 

But  the  train  became  hot  and  dusty;  the  Italians  began 
to  take  off  their  collars  and  hand-painted  ties. 

And  hot  and  dusty,  perspiring  and  dizzily  rushing,  were 
the  streets  of  New  York  when  she  ventured  from  the 
Grand  Central  station  out  into  them  once  more. 

It  was  late.  She  went  to  the  office  at  once.  She  tried 
to  push  away  her  feeling  that  the  Berkshires,  where  she 
had  arisen  to  a  cool  green  dawn  just  that  morning,  were 
leagues  and  years  away.  Tired  she  was,  but  sunburnt  and 
easy-breathing.  She  exploded  into  the  office,  set  down  her 
suit-case,  found  herself  glad  to  shake  Mr.  Wilkins's  Land 
and  to  answer  his  cordial,  "Well,  well,  you're  brown  as  a 
berry.  Have  a  good  time?" 

The  office  was  different,  she  cried — cried  to  that  other 
earlier  self  who  had  sat  in  a  train  and  hoped  that  the  office 
would  be  different. 

She  kissed  Bessie  Kraker,  and  by  an  error  of  enthusiasm 
nearly  kissed  the  office-boy,  and  told  them  about  the  farm 
house,  the  view  from  her  room,  the  Glade,  Bald  Knob, 
Hawkins's  Pond;  about  chickens  and  fresh  milk  and 
pigeons  aflutter;  she  showed  them  the  kodak  pictures 
taken  by  Mrs.  Cannon  and  indicated  Mr.  Starr  and  Miss 
Vincent  and  laughed  about  them  till — 

"Oh,  Miss  Golden,  could  you  take  a  little  dictation 
now?"  Mr.  Wilkins  called. 

There  was  also  a  pile  of  correspondence  unfiled,  and  the 
office  supplies  were  low,  and  Bessie  was  behind  with  her 
copying,  and  the  office-boy  had  let  the  place  get  as  dusty 
as  a  hay-loft — and  the  stiff,  old,  gray  floor-rag  was  grimly 
at  its  post  in  the  wash-room. 

"The  office  isn't  changed,"  she  said;  and  when  she 
went  out  at  three  for  belated  lunch,  she  added,  "and  New 

[216] 


THE    JOB 

York  isn't,  either.  Oh,  Lord !  I  really  am  back  here.  Same 
old  hot  streets.  Don't  believe  there  are  any  Berkshires; 
just  seems  now  as  though  I  hadn't  been  away  at  all." 

She  sat  in  negligee  on  the  roof  of  the  Home  Club  and 
learned  that  Rose  Larsen  and  Mamie  Magen  and  a  dozen 
others  had  just  gone  on  vacation. 

"Lord!  it's  over  for  me,"  she  thought.  "Fifty  more 
weeks  of  the  job  before  I  can  get  away  again — a  whole 
year.  Vacation  is  farther  from  me  now  than  ever.  And 
the  same  old  grind.  .  .  .  Let's  see,  I've  got  to  get  in  touch 
with  the  Adine  Company  for  Mr.  Wilkins  before  I  even 
do  any  filing  in  the  morning — " 

She  awoke,  after  midnight,  and  worried:  "I  mustn't 
forget  to  get  after  the  Adine  Company,  the  very  first 
thing  in  the  morning.  And  Mr.  Wilkins  has  got  to  get 
Bessie  and  me  a  waste-basket  apiece.  Oh,  Lord!  I  wish 
Eddie  Schwirtz  were  going  to  take  me  out  for  a  walk  to 
morrow,  the  old  darling  that  he  is —  I'd  walk  anywhere 
rather  than  ask  Mr.  Wilkins  for  those  blame  waste- 
baskets!" 

15 


CHAPTER  XIV 

MRS.  ESTHER  LAWRENCE  was,  she  said,  bored 
by  the  general  atmosphere  of  innocent  and  bound 
ing  girlhood  at  the  Temperance  Home  Club,  and  she  per 
suaded  Una  to  join  her  in  taking  a  flat — three  small  rooms 
— which  they  made  attractive  with  Japanese  toweling 
and  Russian,  or  at  least  Russian-Jew,  brassware.  Here 
Mrs.  Lawrence's  men  came  calling,  and  sometimes  Mr. 
Julius  Edward  Schwirtz,  and  all  of  them,  except  Una  her 
self,  had  cigarettes  and  highballs,  and  Una  confusedly  felt 
that  she  was  getting  to  be  an  Independent  Woman. 

Then,  in  January,  1909,  she  left  the  stiff,  gray  scrub- 
rag  which  symbolized  the  routine  of  Mr.  Troy  Wilkins's 
office. 

In  a  magazine  devoted  to  advertising  she  had  read  that 
Mr.  S.  Herbert  Ross,  whom  she  had  known  as  advertising- 
manager  of  the  Gas  and  Motor  Gazette,  had  been  appointed 
advertising-manager  for  Pemberton's — the  greatest  manu 
factory  of  drugs  and  toilet  articles  in  the  world.  Una 
had  just  been  informed  by  Mr.  Wilkins  that,  while  he  had 
an  almost  paternal  desire  to  see  her  successful  financially 
and  otherwise,  he  could  never  pay  her  more  than  fifteen 
dollars  a  week.  He  used  a  favorite  phrase  of  commuting 
captains  of  commerce:  "Personally,  I'd  be  glad  to  pay 
you  more,  but  fifteen  is  all  the  position  is  worth."  She 
tried  to  persuade  him  that  there  is  no  position  which  can 
not  be  made  "worth  more."  He  promised  to  "think  it 

over."   He  was  still  taking  a  few  months  to  think  it  over 

[218] 


THE    JOB 

— while  her  Saturday  pay-envelope  remained  as  thin  as 
ever — when  Bessie  Kraker  resigned,  to  marry  a  mattress- 
renovator,  and  in  Bessie's  place  Mr.  Wilkins  engaged  a 
tall,  beautiful  blonde,  who  was  too  much  of  a  lady  to  take 
orders  from  Una.  This  wrecked  Una's  little  office  home, 
and  she  was  inspired  to  write  to  Mr.  S.  Herbert  Ross  at 
Pemberton's,  telling  him  what  a  wise,  good,  noble,  efficient 
man  he  was,  and  how  much  of  a  privilege  it  would  be  to 
become  his  secretary.  She  felt  that  Walter  Babson  must 
have  been  inexact  in  ever  referring  to  Mr.  Ross  as 
"Sherbet  Souse." 

Mr.  Ross  disregarded  her  letter  for  ten  days,  then  so 
urgently  telephoned  her  to  come  and  see  him  that  she 
took  a  taxicab  clear  to  the  Pemberton  Building  in  Long 
Island  City.  After  paying  a  week's  lunch  money  for  the 
taxicab,  it  was  rather  hard  to  discover  why  Mr.  Ross 
had  been  quite  so  urgent.  He  rolled  about  his  magnificent 
mahogany  and  tapestry  office,  looked  out  of  the  window 
at  the  Long  Island  Railroad  tracks,  and  told  her  (in  con 
fidence)  what  fools  all  the  Gas  Gazette  chiefs  had  been, 
and  all  his  employers  since  then.  She  smiled  apprecia 
tively,  and  tried  to  get  in  a  tactful  remark  about  a  posi 
tion.  She  did  discover  that  Mr.  Ross  had  not  as  yet  chosen 
his  secretary  at  Pemberton's,  but  beyond  this  Una  could 
find  no  evidence  that  he  supposed  her  to  have  come  for 
any  reason  other  than  to  hear  his  mellow  wisdom  and  even 
mellower  stories. 

After  more  than  a  month,  during  which  Mr.  Ross 
diverted  himself  by  making  appointments,  postponing 
them,  forgetting  them,  telephoning,  telegraphing,  sending 
special-delivery  letters,  being  paged  at  hotels,  and  doing 
all  the  useless  melodramatic  things  he  could  think  of, 
except  using  an  aeroplane  or  a  submarine,  he  decided  to 
make  her  his  secretary  at  twenty  dollars  a  week.  Twa 

[219] 


THE    JOB 

days  later  it  occurred  to  him  to  test  her  in  regard  to  speed 
in  dictation  and  typing,  and  a  few  other  minor  things  of 
the  sort  which  her  ability  as  a  long-distance  listener  had 
made  him  overlook.  Fortunately,  she  also  passed  this  test. 

When  she  told  Mr.  Wilkins  that  she  was  going  to  leave, 
he  used  another  set  of  phrases  which  all  side-street  office 
potentates  know — they  must  learn  these  cliches  out  of  a 
little  red-leather  manual.  .  .  .  He  tightened  his  lips  and 
tapped  on  his  desk-pad  with  a  blue  pencil;  he  looked 
grieved  and  said,  touchingly:  "I  think  you're  making  a 
mistake.  I  was  making  plans  for  you;  in  fact,  I  had  just 
about  decided  to  offer  you  eighteen  dollars  a  week,  and 
to  advance  you  just  as  fast  as  the  business  will  warrant. 
I,  uh,  well,  I  think  you're  making  a  mistake  in  leaving  a 
sure  thing,  a  good,  sound,  conservative  place,  for  something 
you  don't  know  anything  about.  I'm  not  in  any  way 
urging  you  to  stay,  you  understand,  but  I  don't  like  to 
see  you  making  a  mistake." 

But  he  had  also  told  Bessie  Kraker  that  she  was  "  mak 
ing  a  mistake"  when  she  had  resigned  to  be  married,  and 
he  had  been  so  very  certain  that  Una  could  never  be 
"worth  more"  than  fifteen.  Una  was  rather  tart  about 
it.  Though  Mr.  Ross  didn't  want  her  at  Pemberton's 
for  two  weeks  more,  she  told  Mr.  Wilkins  that  she  was 
going  to  leave  on  the  following  Saturday. 

It  did  not  occur  to  her  till  Mr.  Wilkins  developed  ner 
vous  indigestion  by  trying  to  "break  in"  a  new  secretary 
who  couldn't  tell  a  blue-print  from  a  set  of  specifications, 
that  he  had  his  side  in  the  perpetual  struggle  between  ill- 
paid  failure  employers  and  ill-paid  ambitious  employees. 
She  was  sorry  for  him  as  she  watched  him  putter,  and 
she  helped  him;  stayed  late,  and  powerfully  exhorted  her 
successor.  Mr.  Wilkins  revived  and  hoped  that  she  would 
stay  another  week,  but  stay  she  could  not.  Once  she 

[220] 


THE   JOB 

knew  that  she  was  able  to  break  away  from  the  scrub- 
rag,  that  specter  of  the  wash-room,  and  the  bleak,  frosted 
glass  on  the  semi-partition  in  front  of  her  desk,  no  wage 
could  have  helped  her.  Every  moment  here  was  an 
edged  agony. 

In  this  refusal  there  may  have  been  a  trace  of  aspira 
tion.  Otherwise  the  whole  affair  was  a  hodge-podge  of 
petty  people  and  ignoble  motives — of  Una  and  Wilkins 
and  S.  Herbert  Ross  and  Bessie  Kraker,  who  married  a 
mattress-renovator,  and  Bessie's  successor;  of  fifteen  dol 
lars  a  week,  and  everybody  trying  to  deceive  everybody 
else;  of  vague  reasons  for  going,  and  vaguer  reasons  for 
letting  Una  go,  and  no  reason  at  all  for  her  remaining; 
in  all,  an  ascent  from  a  scrub-rag  to  a  glorified  soap- 
factory  designed  to  provide  Mr.  Pemberton's  daughters- 
in-law  with  motors. 

So  long  as  her  world  was  ruled  by  chance,  half-training, 
and  lack  of  clear  purpose,  how  could  it  be  other  than  a 
hodge-podge? 

§2 

She  could  not  take  as  a  holiday  the  two  weeks  inter-  1 
vening   between    the    Wilkins    office    and    Pemberton's.  j 
When  she  left  Wilkins's,  exulting,  "This  is  the  last  time ; 
I'll    ever    go   down  in  one  of  these  rickety  elevators," 
she  had,  besides  her  fifteen  dollars  in  salary,  one  dollar 
and  seventeen  cents  in  the  savings-bank. 

Mamie  Magen  gave  her  the  opportunity  to  spend  the 
two  weeks  installing  a  modern  filing-system  at  Herzfeld 
&  Cohn's. 

So  Una  had  a  glimpse  of  the  almost  beautiful  thing 
business  can  be. 

"VHerzfeld  and  Cohn  were  Jews,  old,  white-bearded, 
orthodox  Jews;  their  unpoetic  business  was  the  jobbing  of 

[221] 


THE   JOB 

iron  beds;  and  Una  was  typical  of  that  New  York  which 
the  Jews  are  conquering,  in  having  nebulous  prejudices 
against  the  race;  in  calling  them  "mean"  and  "grasping" 
and  "un-American,"  and  wanting  to  see  them  shut  out  of 
offices  and  hotels. 

Yet,  with  their  merry  eyes,  their  quick  little  foreign 
cries  and  gestures  of  sympathy,  their  laughter  that 
rumbled  in  their  tremendous  beards,  their  habit  of  having 
coffee  and  pinochle  in  the  office  every  Friday  afternoon, 
their  sincere  belief  that,  as  the  bosses,  they  were  not 
omniscient  rulers,  but  merely  elder  fellow-workers— with 
these  un-American,  eccentric,  patriarchal  ways,  Herzfeld 
f  and  Cohn  had  made  their  office  a  joyous  adventure. 
Other  people  "in  the  trade"  sniffed  at  Herzfeld  and  Cohn 
for  their  Quixotic  notions  of  discipline,  but  they  made  it 

•  pay  in  dividends  as  well  as  in  affection.     At  breakfast 

*  Una  would  find  herself  eager  to  get  back  to  work,  though 
Herzfeld  and  Cohn  had  but  a  plain  office  in  an  ugly  build 
ing  of  brownstone  and  iron  Corinthian  columns,  resem 
bling  an  old-fashioned  post-office,  and  typical  of  all  that 
block  on  Church  Street.    There  was  such  gentleness  here 
as  Una  was  not  to  find  in  the  modern,  glazed-brick  palace 
of  Pemberton's. 

§» 

Above  railroad  yards  and  mean  tenements  in  Long 
Island  City,  just  across  the  East  River  from  New  York, 
the  shining  milky  walls  of  Pemberton's  bulk  up  like  a 
castle  overtowering  a  thatched  village.  It  is  magnifi 
cently  the  new-fashioned,  scientific,  efficient  business 
institution.  .  .  .  Except,  perhaps,  in  one  tiny  detail. 
King  Pemberton  and  his  princely  sons  do  not  believe  in 
all  this  nonsense  about  profit-sharing,  or  a  minimum 
wage,  or  an  eight-hour  day,  or  pensions,  or  any  of  the 

[222] 


THE    JOB 

other  fads  by  which  dangerous  persons  like  Mr.  Ford,  the 
motor  manufacturer,  encourage  the  lazier  workmen  to 
think  that  they  have  just  as  much  right  to  rise  to  the  top 
as  the  men  who  have  had  nerve  and  foresight.  And  in 
deed  Mr.  Pemberton  may  be  sound.  He  says  that  he 
bases  wages  on  the  economic  law  of  supply  and  demand, 
instead  of  on  sentiment;  and  how  shrewdly  successful 
are  he  and  his  sons  is  indicated  by  the  fact  that  Pember 
ton's  is  one  of  the  largest  sources  of  drugs  and  proprietary 
medicines  in  the  world;  the  second  largest  manufactory 
of  soda-fountain  syrups;  of  rubber,  celluloid,  and  leather 
goods  of  the  kind  seen  in  corner  drug-stores;  and  the 
third  largest  manufactory  of  soaps  and  toilet  articles. 
It  has  been  calculated  that  ninety-three  million  women  in 
all  parts  of  the  world  have  ruined  their  complexions,  and, 
therefore,  their  souls,  by  Pemberton's  creams  and  lotions 
for  saving  the  same;  and  that  nearly  three-tenths  of  the 
alcohol  consumed  in  prohibition  counties  is  obtained  in 
Pemberton's  tonics  and  blood-builders  and  women's  specif 
ics,  the  last  being  regarded  by  large  farmers  with  beards 
as  especially  tasty  and  stimulating.  Mr.  Pemberton  is 
the  Napoleon  of  patent  medicine,  and  also  the  Napoleon 
of  drugs  used  by  physicians  to  cure  the  effects  of  patent 
medicine.  He  is  the  Shakespeare  of  ice-cream  sodas,  and 
the  Edison  of  hot-water  bags.  He  rules  more  than  five 
thousand  employees,  and  his  name  is  glorious  on  cartons 
in  drug-stores,  from  Sandy  Hook  to  San  Diego,  and  chem 
ists'  shops  from  Hong-Kong  to  the  Scilly  Isles.  He  is  a 
modern  Allah,  and  Mr.  S.  Herbert  Ross  is  his  prophet. 


Una  discovered  that  Mr.  Ross,  who  had  been  negligible 

as  advertising-manager  of  the  Gas  and  Motor  Gazette,  had, 

[223] 


THE    JOB 

in  two  or  three  years,  become  a  light  domestic  great  man, 
because  he  so  completely  believed  in  his  own  genius,  and 
because  advertising  is  the  romance,  the  faith,  the  mystery 
of  business.  Mr.  Pemberton,  though  he  knew  well 
enough  that  soap-making  was  a  perfectly  natural  phenom 
enon,  could  never  get  over  marveling  at  the  supernatural 
manner  in  which  advertising  seemed  to  create  something 
out  of  nothing.  It  took  a  cherry  fountain  syrup  which 
was  merely  a  chemical  imitation  that  under  an  old  name 
was  familiar  to  everybody;  it  gave  the  syrup  a  new  name, 
and  made  twenty  million  children  clamor  for  it.  Mr. 
Pemberton  could  never  quite  understand  that  adver 
tising  was  merely  a  matter  of  salesmanship  by  paper  and 
ink,  nor  that  Mr.  Ross's  assistants,  who  wrote  the  copy 
and  drew  the  pictures  and  selected  the  mediums  and  got 
the  "mats"  over  to  the  agency  on  time,  were  real  ad 
vertising  men.  No,  the  trusting  old  pirate  believed  it 
was  also  necessary  to  have  an  ordained  advertising- 
manager  like  Mr.  Ross,  a  real  initiate,  who  could  pull  a 
long  face  and  talk  about  "the  psychology  of  the  utili 
tarian  appeal"  and  "pulling  power"  and  all  the  rest  of 
the  theology.  So  he,  who  paid  packing-girls  as  little  as 
four  dollars  a  week,  paid  Mr.  Ross  fifteen  thousand  dol 
lars  a  year,  and  let  him  have  competent  assistants,  and 
invited  him  out  to  the  big,  lonely,  unhappy  Pemberton 
house  in  the  country,  apd  listened  to  his  sacerdotal  dis 
courses,  and  let  him  keep  four  or  five  jobs  at  once.  For, 
besides  being  advertising-manager  for  Pemberton's,  Mr. 
Ross  went  off  to  deliver  Lyceum  lectures  and  Chautauqua 
addresses  and  club  chit-chats  on  the  blessings  of  selling 
more  soap  or  underwear;  and  for  the  magazines  he  wrote 
prose  poems  about  stars,  and  sympathy,  and  punch,  and 
early  rising,  and  roadside  flowers,  and  argosies,  and  farm 
ing,  and  saving  money. 

[224] 


THE    JOB 

All  this  doge-like  splendor  Una  discovered,  but  could 
scarcely  believe,  for  in  his  own  office  Mr.  Ross  seemed  but 
as  the  rest  of  us — a  small  round  man,  with  a  clown-like 
little  face  and  hair  cut  Dutch-wise  across  his  forehead. 
When  he  smoked  a  big  cigar  he  appeared  naughty.  One 
expected  to  see  his  mother  come  and  judiciously  smack 
him.  But  more  and  more  Una  felt  the  force  of  his  attitude 
that  he  was  a  genius  incomparable.  She  could  not  believe 
that  he  knew  what  a  gorgeous  fraud  he  was.  On  the  same 
day,  he  received  an  advance  in  salary,  discharged  an 
assistant  for  requesting  an  advance  in  salary,  and  dic 
tated  a  magazine  filler  to  the  effect  that  the  chief  duty  of 
executives  was  to  advance  salaries.  She  could  not  chart 
him.  .  .  .  Thus  for  thousands  of  years  have  servants  been 
amazed  at  the  difference  between  pontiffs  in  the  pulpit 
and  pontiffs  in  the  pantry. 

Doubtless  it  helped  Mr.  Ross  in  maintaining  his  sub 
limity  to  dress  like  a  cleric — black,  modest  suits  of  straight 
lines,  white  shirts,  small,  black  ties.  But  he  also  wore 
silk  socks,  which  he  reflectively  scratched  while  he  was 
dictating.  He  was  of  an  elegance  in  linen  handkerchiefs, 
in  a  chased-gold  cigarette-case,  in  cigarettes  with  a  mono 
gram.  Indeed,  he  often  stopped  during  dictation  to  lean 
across  the  enormous  mahogany  desk  and  explain  to  Una 
how  much  of  a  connoisseur  he  was  in  tennis,  fly-casting, 
the  ordering  of  small,  smart  dinners  at  the  Plaza. 

He  was  fond  of  the  word  "smart." 

"Rather  smart  poster,  eh?"  he  would  say,  holding  up 
the  latest  creation  of  his  genius — that  is  to  say,  of  his 
genius  in  hiring  the  men  who  had  planned  and  prepared 
the  creation. 

Mr.  Ross  was  as  full  of  ideas  as  of  elegance.  He  gave 
birth  to  ideas  at  lunch,  at  "conferences,"  while  motoring, 
while  being  refreshed  with  a  manicure  and  a  violet-ray 

[225] 


THE    JOB 

treatment  at  a  barber-shop  in  the  middle  of  one  of  his 
arduous  afternoons.  He  would  gallop  back  to  the  office 
with  notes  on  these  ideas,  pant  at  Una  in  a  controlled 
voice,  "Quick — your  book — got  a'  idea,"  and  dictate  the 
outline  of  such  schemes  as  the  Tranquillity  Lunch  Room 
— a  place  of  silence  and  expensive  food;  the  Grand  Arcade 
— a  ten-block-long  rival  to  Broadway,  all  under  glass; 
the  Barber-Shop  Syndicate,  with  engagement  cards  sent 
out  every  third  week  to  notify  customers  that  the  time 
for  a  hair-cut  had  come  again.  None  of  these  ideas  ever 
had  anything  to  do  with  assisting  Mr.  Pemberton  in  the 
sale  of  soap,  and  none  of  them  ever  went  any  farther  than 
being  outlined.  Whenever  he  had  dictated  one  of  them, 
Mr.  Ross  would  assume  that  he  had  already  made  a  mill 
ion  out  of  it,  and  in  his  quiet,  hypnotizing  voice  he  would 
permit  Una  to  learn  what  a  great  man  he  was.  Hitching 
his  chair  an  inch  nearer  to  her  at  each  sentence,  looking 
straight  into  her  eyes,  in  a  manner  as  unboastf ul  as  though 
he  were  giving  the  market  price  of  eggs,  he  would  tell 
her  how  J.  Pierpont  Morgan,  Burbank,  or  William  Ran- 
doph  Hearst  had  praised  him;  or  how  much  more  he 
knew  about  electricity  or  toxicology  or  frogs  or  Java  than 
anybody  else  in  the  world. 

Not  only  a  priest,  but  a  virtuoso  of  business  was  he, 
and  Una's  chief  task  was  to  keep  assuring  him  that  he 
was  a  great  man,  a  very  great  man — in  fact,  as  great  as  he 
thought  he  was.  This  task  was,  to  the  uneasily  sincere 
Una,  the  hardest  she  had  ever  attempted.  It  was  worth 
five  dollars  more  a  week  than  she  had  received  from  Troy 
\Vilkins — it  was  worth  a  million  more! 

She  got  confidence  in  herself  from  the  ease  with  which 
she  satisfied  Mr.  Ross  by  her  cold,  canned  compliments. 
And  though  she  was  often  dizzied  by  the  whirling  dynamo 
of  Pemberton's,  she  was  not  bored  by  the  routine  of  valet- 

[  226  j 


THE    JOB 

ing  Mr.  Ross  in  his  actual  work. . . .  For  Mr.  Ross  actually 
did  work  now  and  then,  though  his  chief  duty  was  to 
make  an  impression  on  old  Mr.  Pemberton,  his  sons,  and 
the  other  big  chiefs.  Still,  he  did  condescend  to  "put 
his  O.  K."  on  pictures,  on  copy  and  proof  for  magazine 
advertisements,  car  cards,  window-display  "cut-outs," 
and  he  dictated  highly  ethical  reading  matter  for  the  house 
organ,  which  was  distributed  to  ten  thousand  drug-stores, 
and  which  spoke  well  of  honesty,  feminine  beauty,  garden 
ing,  and  Pemberton's.  Occasionally  he  had  a  really  useful 
idea,  like  the  celebrated  slogan,  "Pembertori's  Means 
PURE,"  which  you  see  in  every  street-car,  on  every 
fourth  or  fifth  bill-board.  It  is  frequent  as  the  "In  God 
We  Trust"  on  our  coins,  and  at  least  as  accurate.  This 
slogan,  he  told  Una,  surpassed  "A  train  every  hour  on 
the  hour,"  or  "The  watch  that  made  the  dollar  famous," 
or,  "The  ham  what  am,"  or  any  of  the  other  masterpieces 
of  lyric  advertising.  He  had  created  it  after  going  into  a 
sibyllic  trance  of  five  days,  during  which  he  had  drunk 
champagne  and  black  coffee,  and  ridden  about  in  hansoms, 
delicately  brushing  his  nose  with  a  genuine  California 
poppy  from  the  Monterey  garden  of  R.  L.  S. 

If  Mr.  Ross  was  somewhat  agitating,  he  was  calm  as 
the  desert  compared  with  the  rest  of  Pemberton's. 

His  office,  which  was  like  a  million-dollar  hotel  lobby, 
and  Una's  own  den,  which  was  like  the  baggage-porter's 
den  adjoining  the  same,  were  the  only  spots  at  Pemberton's 
where  Una  felt  secure.  Outside  of  them,  fourteen  stories 
up  in  the  titanic  factory,  was  an  enormous  office-floor, 
which  was  a  wilderness  of  desks,  toilet-rooms,  elevators, 
waiting-rooms,  filing-cabinets.  Her  own  personality  was 
absorbed  in  the  cosmic  (though  soapy)  personality  of 
Pemberton's.  Instead  of  longing  for  a  change,  she  clung 
to  her  own  corner,  its  desk  and  spring-back  chair,  and 

[227] 


THE    JOB 

the  insurance  calendar  with  a  high-colored  picture  of 
Washington's  farewell.  She  preferred  to  rest  here  rather 
than  in  the  "club-room  and  rest-room  for  women  em 
ployees,"  on  which  Mr.  Pemberton  so  prided  himself. 

Una  heard  rumors  of  rest-rooms  which  were  really 
beautiful,  really  restful;  but  at  Pemberton's  the  room  re 
sembled  a  Far  Rockaway  cottage  rented  by  the  week  to 
feeble-minded  bookkeepers.  Musty  it  was,  with  curtains 
awry,  and  it  must  have  been  of  use  to  all  the  branches  of 
the  Pemberton  family  in  cleaning  out  their  attics.  Here 
was  the  old  stuffed  chair  in  which  Pemberton  I.  had 
died,  and  the  cot  which  had  been  in  the  cook's  room  till 
.!  she  had  protested.  The  superstition  among  the  chiefs 
was  that  all  the  women  employees  were  very  grateful 
for  this  charity.  The  room  was  always  shown  to  ex 
clamatory  visitors,  who  told  Mr.  Pemberton  that  he  was 
almost  too  good.  But  in  secret  conclaves  at  lunch  the 
girls  called  the  room  "the  junk-shop,"  and  said  that  they 
would  rather  go  out  and  sit  on  the  curb. 

Una  herself  took  one  look — and  one  smell — at  the  room, 
and  never  went  near  it  again. 

But  even  had  it  been  enticing,  she  would  not  have  fre 
quented  it.  Her  caste  as  secretary  forbade.  For  Pember- 
ton's  was  as  full  of  caste  and  politics  as  a  Republican 
national  convention;  caste  and  politics,  cliques  and 
factions,  plots  and  secrets,  and  dynasties  that  passed 
and  were  forgotten. 

\  .  Plots  and  secrets  Una  saw  as  secretary  to  Mr.  Ross. 
\/  She  remembered  a  day  on  which  Mr.  Ross,  in  her  pres 
ence,  assured  old  Pemberton  that  he  hoped  to  be  with  the 
firm  for  the  rest  of  his  life,  and  immediately  afterward 
dictated  a  letter  to  the  president  of  a  rival  firm  in  the 
effort  to  secure  a  new  position.  He  destroyed  the  carbon 
copy  of  that  letter  and  looked  at  Una  as  serenely  as  ever. 

[228] 


THE    JOB 

Una  saw  him  read  letters  on  the  desks  of  other  chiefs 
while  he  was  talking  to  them;  saw  him  "listen  in"  on 
telephone  calls,  and  casually  thrust  his  foot  into  doors, 
in  order  to  have  a  glimpse  of  the  visitors  in  offices.  She 
saw  one  of  the  younger  Pembertons  hide  behind  a  book 
case  while  his  father  was  talking  to  his  brother.  She 
knew  that  this  Pemberton  and  Mr.  Ross  were  plotting  to 
oust  the  brother,  and  that  the  young,  alert  purchasing 
agent  was  trying  to  undermine  them  both.  She  knew 
that  one  of  the  girls  in  the  private  telephone  exchange 
was  the  mistress  and  spy  of  old  Pemberton.  All  of  the 
chiefs  tried  to  emulate  the  moyen-age  Italians  in  the  arts 
of  smiling  poisoning — but  they  did  it  so  badly;  they 
were  as  fussily  ineffectual  as  a  group  of  school-boys  who 
hate  their  teacher.  Not  "  big  deals  "  and  vast  grim  power 
did  they  achieve,  but  merely  a  constant  current  of  wor 
ried  insecurity,  and  they  all  tended  to  prove  Mrs.  Law 
rence's  assertion  that  the  office- world  is  a  method  of 
giving  the  largest  possible  number  of  people  the  largest 
possible  amount  of  nervous  discomfort,  to  the  end  of 
producing  the  largest  possible  quantity  of  totally  useless 
articles.  .  .  .  The  struggle  extended  from  the  chiefs  to 
the  clerks;  they  who  tramped  up  and  down  a  corridor, 
waiting  till  a  chief  was  alone,  glaring  at  others  who  were 
also  manceuvering  to  see  him;  they  who  studied  the  light 
est  remark  of  any  chief  and  rushed  to  allies  with  the  prob 
lem  of,  "Now,  what  did  he  mean  by  that,  do  you  think?" 
...  A  thousand  questions  of  making  an  impression  on  the 
overlords,  and  of  "House  Policy" — that  malicious  little 
spirit  which  stalks  through  the  business  house  and  en 
courages  people  to  refuse  favors. 

Una's  share  in  the  actual  work  at  Pemberton's  would 
have  been  only  a  morning's  pastime,  but  her  contact  with 
the  high-voltage  current  of  politics  exhausted  her — and 

[229] 


THE    JOB 

taught  her  that  commercial  rewards  come  to  those  who 
demand  and  take. 

The  office  politics  bred  caste.  Caste  at  Pemberton's  was 
as  clearly  defined  as  ranks  in  an  army. 

At  the  top  were  the  big  chiefs,  the  officers  of  the  com 
pany,  and  the  heads  of  departments — Mr.  Pemberton 
and  his  sons,  the  treasurer,  the  general  manager,  the  pur 
chasing-agent,  the  superintendents  of  the  soda-fountain- 
syrup  factory,  of  the  soap-works,  of  the  drug-laboratories, 
of  the  toilet-accessories  shops,  the  sales-manager,  and 
Mr.  S.  Herbert  Ross.  The  Olympian  council  were  they; 
divinities  to  whom  the  lesser  clerks  had  never  dared  to 
speak.  When  there  were  rumors  of  "a  change,"  of  "a 
cut-down  in  the  force,"  every  person  on  the  office  floor 
watched  the  chiefs  as  they  assembled  to  go  out  to  lunch 
together — big,  florid,  shaven,  large-chinned  men,  talking 
easily,  healthy  from  motoring  and  golf,  able  in  a  moment's 
conference  at  lunch  to  "shift  the  policy"  and  to  bring 
instant  poverty  to  the  families  of  forty  clerks  or  four 
hundred  workmen  in  the  shops.  When  they  jovially  en 
tered  the  elevator  together,  some  high-strung  stenographer 
would  rush  over  to  one  of  the  older  women  to  weep  and 
be  comforted.  .  .  .  An  hour  from  now  her  tiny  job  might 
be  gone. 

Even  the  chiefs'  outside  associates  were  tremendous, 
buyers  and  diplomatic  representatives;  big-chested  men 
with  watch-chains  across  their  beautiful  tight  waist 
coats.  And  like  envoys  extraordinary  were  the  efficiency 
experts  whom  Mr.  Pemberton  occasionally  had  in  to  speed 
up  the  work  a  bit  more  beyond  the  point  of  human  en 
durance.  .  .  .  One  of  these  experts,  a  smiling  and  pale- 
haired  young  man  who  talked  to  Mr.  Ross  about  the  new 
poetry,  arranged  to  have  office-boys  go  about  with  trays 
of  water-glasses  at  ten,  twelve,  two,  and  four.  Thitherto, 

[230] 


THE    JOB 

the  stenographers  had  wasted  a  great  deal  of  time  in 
trotting  to  the  battery  of  water-coolers,  in  actually  being 
human  and  relaxed  and  gossipy  for  ten  minutes  a  day. 
After  the  visitation  of  the  expert  the  girls  were  so  ef 
ficient  that  they  never  for  a  second  stopped  their  work 
— except  when  one  of  them  would  explode  in  hysteria  and 
be  hurried  off  to  the  rest-room.  But  no  expert  was  able 
to  keep  them  from  jumping  at  the  chance  to  marry  any 
one  who  would  condescend  to  take  them  out  of  this 
efficient  atmosphere. 

Just  beneath  the  chiefs  was  the  caste  of  bright  young 
men  who  would  some  day  have  the  chance  to  be  beatified 
into  chiefs.  They  believed  enormously  in  the  virtue  of 
spreading  the  blessings  of  Pemberton's  patent  medicines; 
they  worshiped  the  house  policy.  Once  a  month  they 
met  at  what  they  called  "punch  lunches,"  and  listened 
to  electrifying  addresses  by  Mr.  S.  Herbert  Ross  or  some 
other  inspirer,  and  turned  fresh,  excited  eyes  on  one  an 
other,  and  vowed  to  adhere  to  the  true  faith  of  Pember 
ton's,  and  not  waste  their  evenings  in  making  love,  or 
reading  fiction,  or  hearing  music,  but  to  read  diligently 
about  soap  and  syrups  and  window  displays,  and  to  keep 
firmly  before  them  the  vision  of  fifteen  thousand  dollars 
a  year..  They  had  quite  the  best  time  of  any  one  at  Pem 
berton's,  the  bright  young  men.  They  sat,  in  silk  shirts 
and  new  ties,  at  shiny,  flat-topped  desks  in  rows;  they 
answered  the  telephone  with  an  air;  they  talked  about 
tennis  and  business  conditions,  and  were  never,  never 
bored. 

Intermingled  with  this  caste  were  the  petty  chiefs,  the 
office-managers  and  bookkeepers,  who  were  velvety  to 
those  placed  in  power  over  them,  but  twangily  nagging 
to  the  girls  and  young  men  under  them.  Failures  them 
selves,  they  eyed  sourly  the  stenographers  who  desired 

[231] 


THE   JOB 

two  dollars  more  a  week,  and  assured  them  that  while 
personally  they  would  be  very  glad  to  obtain  the  advance 
for  them,  it  would  be  "unfair  to  the  other  girls."  They 
were  very  strong  on  the  subject  of  not  being  unfair  to 
the  other  girls,  and  their  own  salaries  were  based  on 
"keeping  down  overhead."  Oldish  men  they  were,  wear 
ing  last-year  hats  and  smoking  Virginia  cigarettes  at 
lunch;  always  gossiping  about  the  big  chiefs,  and  at 
night  disappearing  to  homes  and  families  in  New  Jersey 
or  Harlem.  Awe-encircled  as  the  very  chiefs  they  ap 
peared  when  they  lectured  stenographers,  but  they  cow 
ered  when  the  chiefs  spoke  to  them,  and  tremblingly 
fingered  their  frayed  cuffs. 

Such  were  the  castes  above  the  buzzer-line. 

Una's  caste,  made  up  of  private  secretaries  to  the  chiefs, 
was  not  above  the  buzzer.  She  had  to  leap  to  the  rattle 
snake  tattoo,  when  Mr.  Ross  summoned  her,  as  quickly 
as  did  the  newest  Jewish  stenographer.  But  hers  was  a 
staff  corps,  small  and  exclusive  and  out  of  the  regular  line. 
On  the  one  hand  she  could  not  associate  with  the  chiefs; 
on  the  other,  it  was  expected  of  her  in  her  capacity  as 
daily  confidante  to  one  of  the  gods,  that  she  should  not 
be  friendly,  in  coat-room  or  rest-room  or  elevator,  with 
the  unrecognized  horde  of  girls  who  merely  copied  or 
took  the  bright  young  men's  dictation  of  letters  to  drug 
stores.  These  girls  of  the  common  herd  were  expected 
to  call  the  secretaries,  "Miss,"  no  matter  what  street- 
corner  impertinences  they  used  to  one  another. 

There  was  no  caste,  though  there  was  much  factional 
rivalry,  among  the  slaves  beneath — the  stenographers, 
copyists,  clerks,  waiting-room  attendants,  office-boys, 
elevator-boys.  They  were  expected  to  keep  clean  and 
be  quick-moving;  beyond  that  they  were  as  unimportant 
to  the  larger  phases  of  office  politics  as  frogs  to  a  summer 

[232] 


THE    JOB 

hotel.  Only  the  cashier's  card  index  could  remember 
their  names.  .  .  .  Though  they  were  not  deprived  of  the 
chief  human  satisfaction  and  vice — feeling  superior.  The 
most  snuffle-nosed  little  mailing-girl  on  the  office  floor 
felt  superior  to  all  of  the  factory  workers,  even  the  fore 
men,  quite  as  negro  house-servants  look  down  on  poor 
white  trash. 

Jealousy  of  position,  cattishness,  envy  of  social  standing 
— these  were  as  evident  among  the  office-women  as  they 
are  in  a  woman's  club;  and  Una  had  to  admit  that  woman's 
cruelty  to  woman  often  justified  the  prejudices  of  execu 
tives  against  the  employment  of  women  in  business;  that 
women  were  the  worst  foes  of  Woman. 

To  Una's  sympathies,  the  office  proletarians  were  her 
own  poor  relations.  She  sighed  over  the  cheap  jackets, 
with  silesia  linings  and  raveled  buttonholes,  which  name 
less  copyists  tried  to  make  attractive  by  the  clean  em 
broidered  linen  collars  which  they  themselves  laundered 
in  wash-bowls  in  the  evening.  She  discovered  that  even 
after  years  of  experience  with  actual  office-boys  and  ele 
vator-boys,  Mr.  Ross  still  saw  them  only  as  slangy, 
comic-paper  devils.  Then,  in  the  elevator,  she  ascertained 
that  the  runners  made  about  two  hundred  trips  up  and 
down  the  dark  chutes  every  day,  and  wondered  if  they 
always  found  it  comic  to  do  so.  She  saw  the  office-boys, 
just  growing  into  the  age  of  interest  in  sex  and  acquiring 
husky  male  voices  and  shambling  sense  of  shame,  yearn 
at  the  shrines  of  pasty-faced  stenographers.  She  saw  the 
humanity  of  all  this  mass — none  the  less  that  they  envied 
her  position  and  spoke  privily  of  "those  snippy  private 
secretaries  that  think  they're  so  much  sweller  than  the 
rest  of  us." 

She  watched  with  peculiar  interest  one  stratum:  the 
old  ladies,  the  white-haired,  fair-handed  women  of  fifty 

16  [233] 


THE    JOB 

and  sixty  and  even  seventy,  spinsters  and  widows,  for 
whom  life  was  nothing  but  a  desk  and  a  job  of  petty  pick 
ings — mailing  circulars  or  assorting  letters  or  checking  up 
lists.  She  watched  them  so  closely  because  she  speculated 
always,  "Will  I  ever  be  like  that?" 

They  seemed  comfortable;  gossipy  they  were,  and  fond 
of  mothering  the  girls.  But  now  and  then  one  of  them 
would  start  to  weep,  cry  for  an  hour  together,  with  her 
white  head  on  a  spotty  desk-blotter,  till  she  forgot  her 
homelessness  and  uselessness.  Epidemics  of  hysteria 
would  spring  up  sometimes,  and  women  of  thirty-five  or 
forty — normally  well  content — would  join  the  old  ladies 
in  sobbing.  Una  would  wonder  if  she  would  be  crying 
like  that  at  thirty-five — and  at  sixty-five,  with  thirty 
barren,  weeping  years  between.  Always  she  saw  the  girls 
of  twenty-two  getting  tired,  the  women  of  twenty-eight 
getting  dry  and  stringy,  the  women  of  thirty-five  in  a 
solid  maturity  of  large-bosomed  and  widowed  spinster- 
hood,  ^the  old  women  purring  and  catty  and  tragic.  .  .  . 
She  herself  was  twenty-eight  now,  and  she  knew  that  she 
was  growing  sallow,  that  the  back  of  her  neck  ached  more 
often,  and  that  she  had  no  release  in  sight  save  the  affably 
dull  Mr.  Julius  Edward  Schwirtz. 

Machines  were  the  Pemberton  force,  and  their  greatest 
rivals  were  the  machines  of  steel  and  wood,  at  least  one 
of  which  each  new  efficiency  expert  left  behind  him: 
Machines  for  opening  letters  and  sealing  them,  automatic 
typewriters,  dictation  phonographs,  pneumatic  chutes. 
But  none  of  the  other  machines  was  so  tyrannical  as  the 
time-clock.  Una  admitted  to  herself  that  she  didn't  see 
how  it  was  possible  to  get  so  many  employees  together 
promptly  without  it,  and  she  was  duly  edified  by  the  fact 
that  the  big  chiefs  punched  it,  too.  .  .  .  But  she  noticed 
that  after  punching  it  promptly  at  nine,  in  an  unctuous 

[234] 


THE    JOB 

manner  which  said  to  all  beholders,  "You  see  that  even  I 
subject  myself  to  this  delightful  humility,"  Mr.  S.  Herbert 
Ross  frequently  sneaked  out  and  had  breakfast.  .  .  . 

She  knew  that  the  machines  were  supposed  to  save 
work.  But  she  was  aware  that  the  girls  worked  just  as 
hard  and  long  and  hopelessly  after  th^ir  introduction  as 
before;  and  she  suspected  that  there  was  something 
wrong  with  a  social  system  in  which  time-saving  devices 
didn't  save  time  for  anybody  but  the  owners.  Sh§.  was 
not  big  enough  nor  small  enough  to  have  a  patent  cure-all 
solution  ready,.  She  could  not  imagine  any  future  for 
these  women  in  business  except  the  accidents  of  marriage 
or  death — or  a  revolution  in  the  attitude  toward  them. 
She  saw  that  the  comfortable  average  men  of  the  office 
sooner  or  later,  if  they  were  but  faithful  and  lived  long 
enough,  had  opportunities,  responsibility,  forced  upon 
them.  No  such  force  was  used  upon  the  comfortable 
average  women! 

She  endeavored  to  picture  a  future  in  which  women, 
the  ordinary,  philoprogenitive,  unambitious  women,  would 
have  some  way  out  besides  being  married  off  or  killed  off. 
She  envisioned  a  complete  change  in  the  fundamental 
purpose  of  organized  business  from  the  increased  produc 
tion  of  soap — or  books  or  munitions — to  the  increased 
production  of  happiness.  How  this  revolution  was  to  be 
accomplished  she  had  but  little  mgre.  notion  than  the 
other  average  women  in  business.  <lShe  blindly  adopted 
from  Mamie  Magen  a  half-comprehended  faith  in  a 
Fabian  socialism,  a  socializing  that  would  crawl  slowly 
through  practical  education  and  the  preaching  of  kinship, 
through  profit-sharing  and  old-age  pensions,  through 
scientific  mosquito-slaying  and  cancer-curing  and  food 
reform  and  the  abolition  of  anarchistic  business  competi 
tion,  to  a  goal  of  tolerable  and  beautiful  life.  Of  one 

[235] 


THE    JOB 

thing  she  was  sui'e:  This  age,  which  should  adjudge  hap 
piness  to  be  as  valuable  as  soap  or  munitions,  would  never 
come  so  long  as  the  workers  accepted  the  testimony  of 
paid  spokesmen  like  S.  Herbert  Ross  to  the  effect  that  they 
were  contented  and  happy,  rather  than  the  evidence  of 
their  own  wincing  Jaerves  to  the  effect  that  they  lived  in  a 
polite  version  of  hell.  .  .  .  She  was  more  and  more  certain 
that  the  workers  weren't  discontented  enough;  that  they 
were  too  patient  with  lives  insecure  and  tedious.  But 
she  refused  to  believe  that  the  age  of  comparative  happi 
ness  would  always  be  a  dream;  for  already,  at  Herzfeld 
&  Cohn's  she  had  tasted  of  an  environment  where  no 
one  considered  himself  a  divinely  ruling  chief,  and  where 
it  was  not  a  crime  to  laugh  easily.  But  certainly  she  did 
not  expect  to  see  this  age  during  her  own  life.  She  and 
her  fellows  were  doomed,  unless  they  met  by  chance  with 
marriage  or  death;  or  unless  they  crawled  to  the  top  of 
the  heap.  And  this  last  she  was  determined  to  do. 
Though  she  did  hope  to  get  to  the  top  without  unduly 
kicking  the  shrieking  mass  of  slaves  beneath  her,  as  the 
bright  young  men  learned  to  do. 

Whenever  she  faced  Mr.  Ross's  imperturbable  belief 
that  things-as-they-are  were  going  pretty  well,  that  "y°u 
can't  change  human  nature,"  Una  would  become  meek  and 
puzzled,  lose  her  small  store  of  revolutionary  economics, 
and  wonder,  grope,  doubt  her  millennial  faith.  Then  she 
would  again  see  the  dead  eyes  of  young  girls  as  they  en 
tered  the  elevators  at  five-thirty,  and  she  would  rage  at 
all  chiefs  and  bright  young  men.  ...  A  gold-eye-glassed, 
kitten-stepping,  good  little  thing  she  was,  and  competent 
to  assist  Mr.  Ross  in  his  mighty  labors,  yet  at  heart  she 
was  a  shawled  Irish  peasant,  or  a  muzhik  lost  in  the  vast- 
ness  of  the  steppes;  a  creature  elemental  and  despairing, 
facing  mysterious  powers  of  nature — human  nature. 

[236] 


CHAPTER  XV 

MR.  JULIUS  EDWARD  SCHWIRTZ  was  a  regular 
visitant  at  the  flat  of  Mrs.  Lawrence  and  Una. 
Mrs.  Lawrence  liked  him;  in  his  presence  she  abandoned 
her  pretense  of  being  interested  in  Mamie  Magen's  arid 
intellectualism,  and  Una's  quivering  anxieties.  Mr. 
Schwirtz  was  ready  for  any  party,  whenever  he  was  "in 
off  the  road." 

Una  began  to  depend  on  him  for  amusements.  Mrs. 
Lawrence  encouraged  her  to  appear  at  her  best  before 
him.  When  he  or  one  of  Mrs.  Lawrence's  men  was  com 
ing  the  two  women  had  an  early  and  quick  dinner  of 
cold  ham  and  canned  soup,  and  hastily  got  out  the  electric 
iron  to  press  a  frock;  produced  Pemberton's  Flesh-Tinted 
Vanisho  Powder,  and  the  lip-stick  whose  use  Una  hated, 
but  which  she  needed  more  and  more  as  she  came  back 
from  the  office  bloodless  and  cold.  They  studied  together 
the  feminine  art  of  using  a  new  veil,  a  flower,  or  fresh 
white-kid  gloves,  to  change  one's  appearance. 

Poor  Una!  She  was  thinking  now,  secretly  and  shame 
facedly,  of  the  "beautifying  methods"  which  she  saw 
advertised  in  every  newspaper  and  cheap  magazine. 
She  rubbed  her  red,  desk-calloused  elbows  with  Pember 
ton's  cold-cream.  She  cold-creamed  and  massaged  her 
face  every  night,  standing  wearily  before  a  milky  mirror 
in  the  rather  close  and  lingerie-scattered  bedroom,  solemnly 
rotating  her  fingers  about  her  cheeks  and  forehead,  stop- 

[237] 


THE    JOB 

ping  to  conjecture  that  the  pores  in  her  nose  were  getting 
enlarged.  She  rubbed  her  hair  with  Pemberton's  "  Olivine 
and  Petrol"  to  keep  it  from  growing  thin,  and  her  neck 
with  cocoanut  oil  to  make  it  more  full.  She  sent  for  a 
bottle  of  "Mine.  LeGrand's  Bust-Developer,"  and  spent 
several  Saturday  afternoons  at  the  beauty  parlors  of 
Mme.  Isoldi,  where  in  a  little  booth  shut  off  by  a  white- 
rubber  curtain,  she  received  electrical  massages,  appli 
cations  of  a  magic  N-ray  hair-brush,  vigorous  cold-cream 
ing  and  warm-compressing,  and  enormous  amounts  of 
advice  about  caring  for  the  hair  follicles,  from  a  young 
woman  who  spoke  French  with  a  Jewish  accent. 

By  a  twist  of  psychology,  though  she  had  not  been  par 
ticularly  fond  of  Mr.  Schwirtz,  but  had  anointed  herself 
for  his  coming  because  he  was  a  representative  of  men, 
yet  after  months  of  thus  dignifying  his  attentions,  the 
very  effort  made  her  suppose  that  she  must  be  fond  of  him. 
Not  Mr.  Schwirtz,  but  her  own  self  did  she  befool  with 
Pemberton's  "Preparations  de  Paris." 

Sometimes  with  him  alone,  sometimes  with  him  and 
Mrs.  Lawrence  and  one  of  Mrs.  Lawrence's  young  business 
man  attendants,  Una  went  to  theaters  and  dinners  and 
heterogeneous  dances. 

She  was  dazzled  and  excited  when  Mr.  Schwirtz  took 
her  to  the  opening  of  the  Champs  du  Pom-Pom,  the 
latest  potpourri  of  amusements  on  Broadway.  All  under 
one  roof  were  a  super-vaudeville  show,  a  smart  musical 
comedy,  and  the  fireworks  of  one-act  plays;  a  Chinese 
restaurant,  and  a  Louis  Quinze  restaurant  and  a  Syrian 
desert-caravan  restaurant;  a  ballroom  and  an  ice-skating 
rink;  a  summer  garden  that,  in  midwinter,  luxuriated  in 
real  trees  and  real  grass,  and  a  real  brook  crossed  by 
Japanese  bridges.  Mr.  Schwirtz  was  tireless  and  extrava 
gant  and  hearty  at  the  Champs  du  Pom-Pom.  He  made 

[238] 


THE    JOB 

Una  dance  and  skate;  he  had  a  box  for  the  vaudeville; 
he  gave  her  caviar  canape  and  lobster  d  la  Rue  des  Trvis 
Sosurs  in  the  Louis  Quinze  room;  and  sparkling  Bur 
gundy  in  the  summer  garden,  where  mocking-birds  sang 
in  the  wavering  branches  above  their  table.  Una  took 
away  an  impressionistic  picture  of  the  evening — 

Scarlet  and  shadowy  green,  sequins  of  gold,  slim  shoul 
ders  veiled  in  costly  mist.  The  glitter  of  spangles,  the  hiss 
ing  of  silk,  low  laughter,  and  continual  music  quieter  than 
a  dream.  Crowds  that  were  not  harsh  busy  folk  of  the 
streets,  but  a  nodding  procession  of  gallant  men  and 
women.  A  kindly  cleverness  which  inspirited  herr  and 
a  dusky  perfume  in  which  she  could  meditate  forever, 
like  an  Egyptian  goddess  throned  at  the  end  of  incense- 
curtained  aisles.  Great  tapestries  of  velvet  and  jeweled 
lights;  swift,  smiling  servants;  and  the  languorous  well- 
being  of  eating  strange,  delicious  foods.  Orchids  and  the 
scent  of  poppies  and  spell  of  the  lotos-flower,  the  bead  of 
wine  and  lips  that  yearned;  ecstasy  in  the  Oriental  pride 
of  a  superb  Jewess  who  was  singing  to  the  demure  en 
chantment  of  little  violins.  Her  restlessness  satisfied,  a 
momentary  pang  of  distrust  healed  by  the  brotherly 
talk  of  the  broad-shouldered  man  who  cared  for  her  and 
nimbly  fulfilled  her  every  whim.  An  unvoiced  desire  to 
keep  him  from  drinking  so  many  highballs;  an  enduring 
thankfulness  to  him  when  she  was  back  at  the  flat;  a 
defiant  joy  that  he  had  kissed  her  good-night — just  once, 
and  so  tenderly;  a  determination  to  "be  good  for  him," 
and  a  fear  that  he  had  "spent  too  much  money  on  her 
to-night,"  and  a  plan  to  reason  with  him  about  whisky 
and  extravagance.  A  sudden  hatred  of  the  office  to  which 
she  would  have  to  return  in  the  morning,  and  a  stronger, 
more  sardonic  hatred  of  hearing  Mr.  S.  Herbert  Ross 
pluck  out  his  vest-pocket  harp  and  hymn  his  own  praise 

[239] 


THE    JOB 

in  a  one-man  choir,  cherubic,  but  slightly  fat.  A  descent 
from  high  gardens  of  moonlight  to  the  reality  of  the  flat, 
where  Lawrence  was  breathing  loudly  in  her  sleep;  the 
oily  smell  of  hairs  tangled  in  her  old  hair-brush;  the  sight 
of  the  alarm-clock  which  in  just  six  hours  would  be 
flogging  her  off  to  the  mill.  A  sudden,  frightened  query 
as  to  what  scornful  disdain  Walter  Babson  would  fling 
at  her  if  he  saw  her  glorying  in  this  Broadway  circus  with 
the  heavy  Mr.  Schwirtz.  A  ghostly  night-born  feeling 
that  she  still  belonged  to  Walter,  living  or  dead,  and  a 
wonder  as  to  where  in  all  the  world  he  might  be.  A  defiant 
protest  that  she  idealized  WTalter,  that  he  wasn't  so  awfully 
superior  to  the  Champs  du  Pom-Pom  as  this  astral  body 
of  his  was  pretending,  and  a  still  more  defiant  gratitude 
to  Mr.  Schwirtz  as  she  crawled  into  the  tousled  bed  and 
Mrs.  Lawrence  half  woke  to  yawn,  "Oh,  that — you — • 
Gold'n?  Gawd!  I'm  sleepy.  Wha'  time  is  Jt?" 

§2 

Una  was  sorry.  She  hated  herself  as  what  she  called 
a  "quitter,"  but  now,  in  January,  1910,  she  was  at  an 
impasse.  She  could  just  stagger  through  each  day  of  S. 
Herbert  Ross  and  office  diplomacies.  She  had  been  at 
Pemberton's  for  a  year  and  a  third,  and  longer  than  that 
with  Mrs.  Lawrence  at  the  flat.  The  summer  vacation 
of  1909  she  had  spent  with  Mrs.  Lawrence  at  a  Jersey 
coast  resort.  They  had  been  jealous,  had  quarreled,  and 
made  it  up  every  day,  like  lovers.  They  had  picked  up 
two  summer  men,  and  Mrs.  Lawrence  had  so  often  gone 
off  on  picnics  with  her  man  that  Una  had  become  uneasy, 
felt  soiled,  and  come  back  to  the  city  early.  For  this  Mrs. 
Lawrence  had  never  forgiven  her.  She  had  recently  be 
come  engaged  to  a  doctor  who  was  going  to  Akron,  Ohio, 

[240] 


THE   JOB 

and  she  exasperated  Una  by  giving  her  bland  advice  about 
trying  to  get  married.  Una  never  knew  whether  she 
was  divorced,  or  whether  the  mysterious  Mr.  Lawrence 
had  died. 

But  even  the  difficile  Lawrence  was  preferable  to  the 
strain  at  the  office.  Una  was  tired  clean  through  and 
through.  She  felt  as  though  her  very  soul  had  been 
drained  out  by  a  million  blood-sucker  details — constant 
adjustments  to  Ross's  demands  for  admiration  of  his 
filthiest  office  political  deals,  and  the  need  of  keeping 
friendly  with  both  sides  when  Ross  was  engaged  in  one 
of  his  frequent  altercations  with  an  assistant. 

Often  she  could  not  eat  in  the  evening.  She  would  sit ' 
on  the  edge  of  the  bed  and  cry  hopelessly,  with  a  long, 
feeble,  peculiarly  feminine  sobbing,  till  Mrs.  Lawrence 
slammed  the  door  and  went  off  to  the  motion  pictures. 
Una  kept  repeating  a  little  litany  she  had  made  regarding 
the  things  she  wished  people  would  stop  doing — pray 
ing  to  be  delivered  from  Ross's  buoyant  egotism,  from 
Mrs.  Lawrence's  wearing  of  Una's  best  veils,  from  Mr. 
Schwirtz's  acting  as  though  he  wanted  to  kiss  her  whenever 
he  had  a  whisky  breath,  from  the  office-manager  who 
came  in  to  chat  with  her  just  when  she  was  busiest,  from 
the  office-boy  who  always  snapped  his  fingers  as  he  went 
down  the  corridor  outside  her  door,  and  from  the  elevator- 
boy  who  sucked  his  teeth.  ^ 

She  was  sorry.    She  wanted  to  climb.    She  didn't  want"; 
to  be  a  quitter.    But  she  was  at  an  impasse. 

On  a  January  day  the  Pemberton  office  beheld  that 
most  terrifying  crisis  that  can  come  to  a  hard,  slave- 
driving  office.  As  the  office  put  it,  "The  Old  Man  was  on 
a  rampage." 

Mr.  Pemberton,  senior,  most  hoarily  awful  of  all  the 
big  chiefs,  had  indigestion  or  a  poor  balance-sheet.  He 

[241] 


THE    JOB 

decided  that  everything  was  going  wrong.  He  raged  from 
room  to  room.  He  denounced  the  new  poster,  the  new 
top  for  the  talcum-powder  container,  the  arrangement  of 
the  files,  and  the  whispering  in  the  amen  corner  of  veteran 
stenographers.  He  sent  out  flocks  of  "office  memoes." 
Everybody  trembled.  Mr.  Pemberton's  sons  actually  did 
some  work;  and,  as  the  fire  spread  and  the  minor  bosses 
5n  turn  raged  among  their  subordinates,  the  girls  who 
packed  soap  down  in  the  works  expected  to  be  "fired." 
Alter  a  visitation  from  Mr.  Pemberton  and  three  raging 
memoes  within  fifteen  minutes,  Mr.  S.  Herbert  Ross  re 
treated  toward  the  Lafayette  Cafe,  and  Una  was  left  to 
face  Mr.  Pemberton's  bear-like  growls  on  his  next  appear 
ance. 

When  he  did  appear  he  seemed  to  hold  her  responsible 
for  all  the  world's  long  sadness.  Meanwhile  the  printer 
was  telephoning  for  Mr.  Ross's  O.K.  on  copy,  the  engrav 
ers  wanted  to  know  where  the  devil  was  that  color-proof, 
the  advertising  agency  sarcastically  indicated  that  it  was 
difficult  for  them  to  insert  an  advertisement  before  they 
received  the  order,  and  a  girl  from  the  cashier's  office  came 
nagging  in  about  a  bill  for  India  ink. 

The  memoes  began  to  get  the  range  of  her  desk  again, 
jind  Mr.  Pemberton's  voice  could  be  heard  in  a  distant 
part  of  the  office,  approaching,  menacing,  all-pervading. 

Una  fled.  She  ran  to  a  wash-room,  locked  the  door, 
leaned  panting  against  it,  as  though  detectives  were  pur 
suing  her.  She  was  safe  for  a  moment.  They  might  miss 
her,  but  she  was  insulated  from  demands  of,  "Where's 
Ross,  Miss  Golden?  Well,  why  don't  you  know  where  he 
is?"  from  telephone  calls,  and  from  memoes  whose  polite 
"please"  was  a  gloved  threat. 

But  even  to  this  refuge  the  familiar  sound  of  the  office 
penetrated — the  whirr  which  usually  sounded  as  a  homo- 

[242] 


THE    JOB 

geneous  murmur,  but  which,  in  her  acute  sensitiveness, 
she  now  analyzed  into  the  voices  of  different  typewriters — 
one  flat,  rapid,  staccato;  one  a  steady,  dull  rattle.  The 
"zzzzz"  of  typewriter-carriages  being  shoved  back.  The 
roll  of  closing  elevator  doors,  and  the  rumble  of  the 
ascending  elevator.  The  long  burr  of  an  unanswered 
telephone  at  a  desk,  again  and  again;  and  at  last  an  angry 
"Well!  Hello?  Yes,  yes;  this  's  Mr.  Jones.  What-duh- 
yuh  want?"  Voices  mingled;  a  shout  for  Mr.  Brown; 
the  hall-attendant  yelping:  "Miss  Golden!  Where's  Miss 
Golden?  Anything  for  Sanford?  Mr.  Smith,  d'you  know 
if  there's  anything  for  Sanford?"  Always,  over  and 
through  all,  the  enveloping  clatter  of  typewriters,  and  the 
city  roar  behind  that,  breaking  through  the  barrier  of  the 
door. 

The  individual,  analyzed  sounds  again  blended  in  one 
insistent  noise  of  hurry  which  assailed  Una's  conscience, 
summoned  her  back  to  her  work. 

She  sighed,  washed  her  stinging  eyes,  opened  the  door, 
and  trailed  back  toward  her  den. 

In  the  corridor  she  passed  three  young  stenographers 
and  heard  one  of  them  cry:  "Yes,  but  I  don't  care  if 
old  Alfalfa  goes  on  a  rampage  twenty-five  hours  a  day. 
I'm  through.  Listen,  May,  say,  what  d'you  know  about 
me?  I'm  engaged!  No,  honest,  straight  I  am!  Look  at 
me  ring!  Aw,  it  is  not;  it's  a  regular  engagement-ring. 
I'm  going  to  be  out  of  this  hell-hole  in  two  weeks,  and 
Papa  Pemberton  can  work  off  his  temper  on  somebody 
else.  Me,  I'm  going  to  do  a  slumber  marathon  till  noon 
every  day." 

"Gee!" 

"Engaged!" 

— said  the  other  girls,  and — 

"Engaged!    Going  to  sleep  till  noon  every  day.    And 

[243] 


THE    JOB 

not  see  Mr.  Ross  or  Mr.  Pemberton!  That's  my  idea  of 
heaven!"  thought  Una. 

There  was  a  pile  of  inquiring  memoes  from  Mr.  Pem 
berton  and  the  several  department  heads  on  her  desk, 
As  she  looked  at  them  Una  reached  the  point  of  active 
protest. 

"  S.  Herbert  runs  for  shelter  when  the  storm  breaks,  and 
leaves  me  here  to  stand  it.  Why  isn't  he  supposed  to  be 
here  on  the  job  just  as  much  as  I  am?"  she  declaimed. 
"Why  haven't  I  the  nerve  to  jump  up  and  go  out  for  a  cup 
of  tea  the  way  he  would?  By  jimmy!  I  will!" 

She  was  afraid  of  the  indefinite  menace  concealed  in  all 
the  Pemberton  system  as  she  signaled  an  elevator.  But 
she  did  not  answer  a  word  when  the  hall-attendant  said, 
"You  are  going  out,  Miss  Golden?" 

She  went  to  a  German-Jewish  bakery  and  lunch-room, 
and  reflectively  got  down  thin  coffee  served  in  a  thick  cup, 
a  sugar- warted  Kaffeekuche,  and  two  crullers.  She  was 
less  willing  to  go  back  to  work  than  she  had  been  in  her 
refuge  in  the  wash-room.  She  felt  that  she  would  rather 
be  dead  than  return  and  subject  herself  to  the  strain. 
She  was  "through,"  like  the  little  engaged  girl.  She  was 
a  "quitter." 

For  half  an  hour  she  remained  in  the  office,  but  she  left 
promptly  at  five-thirty,  though  her  desk  was  choked  with 
work  and  though  Mr.  Ross  telephoned  that  he  would  be 
back  before  six,  which  was  his  chivalrous  way  of  demand 
ing  that  she  stay  till  seven. 

Mr.  Schwirtz  was  coming  to  see  her  that  evening.  He 
had  suggested  vaudeville. 

She  dressed  very  carefully.  She  did  her  hair  in  a  new 
way. 

When  Mr.  Schwirtz  came  she  cried  that  she  couldn't  go 
to  a  show.  She  was  "clean  played  out."  She  didn't  know 

[244] 


THE   JOB 

what  she  could  do.  Pemberton's  was  too  big  a  threshing- 
machine  for  her.  She  was  tired — "absolutely  all  in." 

"Poor  little  sister!"  he  said,  and  smoothed  her  hair. 

She  rested  her  face  on  his  shoulder.  It  seemed  broad 
and  strong  and  protective. 

She  was  glad  when  he  put  his  arm  about  her. 

She  was  married  to  Mr.  Schwirtz  about  two  weeks  later. 

§3 

She  had  got  herself  to  caU  him  "Ed."  .  .  .  "Eddie" 
she  could  not  encompass,  even  in  that  fortnight  of  rushing 
change  and  bewilderment. 

She  asked  for  a  honeymoon  trip  to  Savannah.  She 
wanted  to  rest;  she  had  to  rest  or  she  would  break,  she 
said. 

They  went  to  Savannah,  to  the  live-oaks  and  palmettoes 
and  quiet  old  squares. 

But  she  did  not  rest.  Always  she  brooded  about  the 
unleashed  brutality  of  their  first  night  on  the  steamer, 
the  strong,  inescapable  man-smell  of  his  neck  and  shoul 
ders,  the  boisterous  jokes  he  kept  telling  her. 

He  insisted  on  their  staying  at  a  commercial  hotel  at 
Savannah.  Whenever  she  went  to  lie  down,  which  was 
frequently,  he  played  poker  and  drank  highballs.  He 
tried  in  his  sincerest  way  to  amuse  her.  He  took  her  to 
theaters,  restaurants,  road-houses.  He  arranged  a  three 
days'  hunting-trip,  with  a  darky  cook.  He  hired  motor- 
boats  and  motor-cars  and  told  her  every  "here's  a  new 
one,"  that  he  heard.  But  she  dreade*!  his  casual-seeming 
suggestions  that  she  drink  plenty  of  champagne;  dreaded 
his  complaints,  whiney  as  a  small  boy,  "Come  now,  Unie, 
show  a  little  fire.  I  tell  you  a  fellow's  got  a  right  to  ex 
pect  it  at  this  time."  She  dreaded  his  frankness  of  undress- 

[245J 


THE    JOB 

ing,  of  shaving;  dreaded  his  occasional  irritated  protests 
of  "  Don't  be  a  finicking,  romantic  school-miss.  I  may  not 
wear  silk  underdo'  and  perfume  myself  like  some  bum 
actor,  but  I'm  a  regular  guy";  dreaded  being  alone  with 
him;  dreaded  always  the  memory  of  that  first  cataclysmic 
night  of  their  marriage;  and  mourned,  as  in  secret,  for  year 
on  year,  thousands  of  women  do  mourn.  "  Oh,  I  wouldn't 
care  now  if  he  had  just  been  gentle,  been  considerate.  .  .  . 
Oh,  Ed  is  good;  he  does  mean  to  care  for  me  and  give  me  a 
good  time,  but — " 

When  they  returned  to  New  York,  Mr.  Schwirtz  said, 
robustly:  "Well,  little  old  trip  made  consid'able  hole  in 
my  wad.  I'm  clean  busted.  Down  to  one  hundred  bucks 
in  the  bank." 

"Why,  I  thought  you  were  several  thousand  ahead!" 
"Oh — oh!  I  lost  most  of  that  in  a  little  flyer  on  stocks 
— thought  I'd  make  a  killing,  and  got  turned  into  lamb- 
chops;   tried  to  recoup  my  losses  on  that  damn  flying- 
machine,  passenger-carrying  game  that  that 

let  me  in  for.    Never  mind,  little  sister;  we'll 

start  saving  now.  And  it  was  worth  it.  Some  trip,  eh? 
You  enjoyed  it,  didn't  you — after  the  first  couple  days, 
while  you  were  seasick?  You'll  get  over  all  your  fool, 
girly-girly  notions  now.  Women  always  are  like  that.  I 
remember  the  first  missus  was,  too.  .  .  .  And  maybe  a 
few  other  skirts,  though  I  guess  I  hadn't  better  tell  no 
tales  outa  school  on  little  old  Eddie  Schwirtz,  eh?  Ha, 
ha!  ...  Course  you  high-strung  virgin  kind  of  shemales 
take  some  time  to  learn  to  get  over  your  choosey,  finicky 
ways.  But,  Lord  love  you!  I  don't  mind  that  much. 
Never  could  stand  for  these  rough-necks  that  claim  they'd 
rather  have  a  good,  healthy  walloping  country  wench 
than  a  nice,  refined  city  lady.  Why,  I  like  refinement! 
Yes,  sir,  I  sure  do! ...  Well,  it  sure  was  some  trip.  Guess 

J246J 


THE   JOB 

we  won't  forget  it  in  a  hurry,  eh?  Sure  is  nice  to  rub  up 
against  some  Southern  swells  like  we  did  that  night  at  the 
Avocado  Club.  And  that  live  bunch  of  salesmen.  Gosh! 
Say,  I'll  never  forget  that  Jock  Sanderson.  He  was  a 
comical  cuss,  eh?  That  story  of  his — " 

"No,"  said  Una,  "I'll  never  forget  the  trip." 

But  she  tried  to  keep  the  frenzy  out  of  her  voice.  The 
frenzy  was  dying,  as  so  much  of  her  was  dying.  She 
hadn't  realized  a  woman  can  die  so  many  times  and  still 
live.  Dead  had  her  heart  been  at  Pemberton's,  yet  it 
had  secreted  enough  life  to  suffer  horribly  now,  when  it 
was  again  being  mauled  to  death. 

And  she  wanted  to  spare  this  man. 

She  realized  that  poor  Ed  Schwirtz,  puttering  about 
their  temporary  room  in  a  side-street  family  hotel,  yawn 
ing  and  scratching  his  head,  and  presumably  comfortable 
in  suspenders  over  a  woolen  undershirt — she  realized  that 
he  treasured  a  joyous  memory  of  their  Savannah  diver 
sions. 

She  didn't  want  to  take  joy  away  from  anybody  who 
actually  had  it,  she  reflected,  as  she  went  over  to  the 
coarse-lace  hotel  curtains,  parted  them,  stared  down  on 
the  truck-filled  street,  and  murmured,  "No,  I  can't  ever 
forget." 


Part    III 
MAN    AND    WOMAN 


CHAPTER  XVI 

FOR  two  years  Una  Golden  Schwirtz  moved  amid  the 
blank  procession  of  phantoms  who  haunt  cheap  family 
hotels,  the  apparitions  of  the  corridors,  to  whom  there  is 
no  home,  nor  purpose,  nor  permanence.  Mere  lodgers 
for  the  night,  though  for  score  on  score  of  tasteless  years 
they  use  the  same  alien  hotel  room  as  a  place  in  which  to 
take  naps  and  store  their  trunks  and  comb  their  hair  and 
sit  waiting — for  nothing.  The  men  are  mysterious.  They 
are  away  for  hours  or  months,  or  they  sit  in  the  smoking- 
jpom,  glancing  up  expectant  of  fortunes  that  never  come. 
But  the  men  do  have  friends;  they  are  permitted  famili- 
^arities  by  the  bartender  in  the  cafe.  It  is  the  women  and 
children  who  are  most  dehumani^ecTJ  The  children  play 
in  the  corridors;  they  become  bold  and  sophisticated; 
they  expect  attention  from  strangers.  At  fourteen  the 
girls  have  long  dresses  and  mature  admirers,  and  the  boys 
ape  the  manners  of  their  shallow  elders  and  discuss 
brands  of  cigarettes.  The  women  sit  and  rock,  empty- 
hearted  and  barren  of  hands.  When  they  try  to  make 
individual  homes  out  of  their  fixed  molds  of  rooms — the 
hard  walls,  the  brass  bedsteads,  the  inevitable  bureaus, 
the  small  rockers,  and  the  transoms  that  always  let  in  too 
much  light  from  the  hall  at  night — then  they  are  only  the 
more  pathetic.  For  the  small  pictures  of  pulpy  babies 
photographed  as  cupids,  the  tin  souvenirs  and  the  pseudo- 
Turkish  scarves  draped  over  trunks  rob  the  rooms  of  the 
simplicity  which  is  their  only  merit. 

12511 


THE    JOB 

For  two  years — two  years  snatched  out  of  her  life  and 
traded  for  somnambulatory  peace,  Una  lived  this  spectral 
life  of  one  room  in  a  family  hotel  on  a  side  street  near  Sixth 
Avenue.  The  only  other  dwelling-places  she  saw  were 
the  flats  of  friends  of  her  husband. 

He  often  said,  with  a  sound  of  pride:  "We  don't  care  a 
darn  for  all  these  would-be  social  climbers.  The  wife 
and  I  lead  a  regular  Bohemian  life.  We  know  a  swell 
little  bunch  of  live  ones,  and  we  have  some  pretty  nifty 
parties,  lemme  tell  you,  with  plenty  poker  and  hard 
liquor.  And  one-two  of  the  bunch  have  got  their  own 
cars — I  tell  you  they  make  a  whole  lot  more  coin  than 
a  lot  of  these  society-column  guys,  even  if  they  don't 
throw  on  the  agony;  and  we  all  pile  in  and  go  up  to  some 
road-house,  and  sing,  and  play  the  piano,  and  have  a 
real  time." 

Conceive  Una — if  through  the  fumes  of  cheap  ciga 
rettes  you  can  make  out  the  low  lights  of  her  fading  hair — • 
sitting  there,  trying  patiently  to  play  a  "good,  canny  fist 
of  poker" — which,  as  her  husband  often  and  irritably 
assured  her,  she  would  never  learn  to  do.  He  didn't,  he 
said,  mind  her  losing  his  "good,  hard-earned  money," 
but  he  "  hated  to  see  Eddie  Schwirtz's  own  wife  more  of  a 
boob  than  Mrs.  Jock  Sanderson,  who's  a  regular  guy; 
plays  poker  like  a  man." 

Mrs.  Sanderson  was  a  black-haired,  big-bosomed  woman 
with  a  face  as  hard  and  smooth  and  expressionless  as  a 
dinner-plate,  with  cackling  laughter  and  a  tendency  to 
ray,  "Oh,  hell,  boys!"  apropos  of  nothing.  She  was  a 
"good  sport"  and  a  "good  mixer,"  Mr.  Schwirtz  averred; 
and  more  and  more,  as  the  satisfaction  of  having  for  his 
new  married  mistress  a  "refined  lady"  grew  dull,  he  ad 
jured  the  refined  lady  to  imitate  Mrs.  Sanderson. 

Fortunately,  Mr.  Schwirtz  was  out  of  town  two-thirds 

[252] 


THE    JOB 

of  the  time.  But  one-third  of  the  time  was  a  good  deal, 
since  for  weeks  before  his  coming  she  dreaded  him;  and 
for  weeks  after  his  going  she  remembered  him  with  chill 
shame;  since  she  hadn't  even  the  whole-hearted  enthusi 
asm  of  hating  him,  but  always  told  herself  that  she  was  a 
prude,  an  abnormal,  thin-blooded  creature,  and  that  she 
ought  to  appreciate  "Ed's"  desire  to  have  her  share  his 
good  times,  be  coarse  and  jolly  and  natural. 
^His  extravagance  was  constant.  He  was  always  plan 
ning  to  rent  an  expensive  apartment  and  furnish  it,  but 
the  money  due  him  after  each  trip  he  spent  immediately 
and  they  were  never  able  to  move  away  from  the  family 
hotel.  He  had  to  have  taxicabs  when  they  went  to  thea 
ters.  He  would  carol,  "Oh,  don't  let's  be  pikers,  little 
sister — nothing  too  good  for  Eddie  Schwirtz,  that's  my 
motto."  And  he  would  order  champagne,  the  one  sort 
of  good  wine  that  he  knew.  He  always  overtipped  wait 
ers  and  enjoyed  his  own  generosity.  Generous  he  really 
was,  in  a  clumsy  way.  He  gave  to  Una  all  he  had  over 
from  his  diversions;  urged  her  to  buy  clothes  and  go  to 
matinees  while  he  was  away,  and  told  it  as  a  good  joke 
that  he  "blew  himself"  so  extensively  on  their  parties 
that  he  often  had  to  take  day-coaches  instead  of  sleepers 
for  a  week  after  he  left  New  York.  .  .  .  Una  had  no  notion 
of  how  much  money  he  made,  but  she  knew  that  he  never 
saved  it.  She  would  beg :  "  Why  don't  you  do  like  so  many 
of  the  other  traveling-men?  Your  Mr.  Sanderson  is  saving 
money  and  buying  real  estate,  even  though  he  does  have 
a  good  time.  Let's  cut  out  some  of  the  unnecessary 
parties  and  things — " 

"Rats!  My  Mr.  Sanderson  is  a  leet-le  tight,  like  all 
them  Scotch  laddies.  I'm  going  to  start  saving  one  of 
these  days.  But  what  can  you  do  when  the  firm  screws 
you  down  on  expense  allowances  and  don't  hardly  allow 

[253] 


THE   JOB 

you  one  red  cent  of  bonus  on  new  business?  There's  no 
chance  for  a  man  to-day — these  damn  capitalists  got 
everything  lashed  down.  I  tell  you  I'm  getting  to  be  a 
socialist." 

He  did  not  seem  to  be  a  socialist  of  the  same  type  as 
Mamie  Magen,  but  he  was  interested  in  socialism  to 
j  this  extent — he  always  referred  to  it  at  length  whenever 
V  Una  mentioned  saving  money. 

She  had  not  supposed  that  he  drank  so  much.  Always 
he  smelled  of  whisky,  and  she  found  quart  bottles  of  it  in 
his  luggage  when  he  returned  from  a  trip. 

But  he  never  showed  signs  of  drunkenness,  except  in 
his  urgent  attentions  to  her  after  one  of  their  "jolly 
Bohemian  parties." 

More  abhorrent  to  her  was  the  growing  slackness  in 
his  personal  habits.  .  .  .  He  had  addressed  her  with  great 
volubility  and  earnestness  upon  his  belief  that  now  they 
were  married,  she  must  get  rid  of  all  her  virginal  book- 
learned  notions  about  reticence  between  husband  and 
wife.  Such  feminine  "hanky-panky  tricks,"  he  assured 
her,  were  the  cause  of  "all  these  finicky,  unhappy  mar 
riages  and  these  rotten  divorces — lot  of  fool  clubwomen 
and  suffragettes  and  highbrows  expecting  a  man  to  be 
like  a  nun.  A  man's  a  man,  and  the  sooner  a  female  gets 
on  to  that  fact  and  doesn't  nag,  nag,  nag  him,  and  let's 
him  go  round  being  comfortable  and  natural,  the  kinder 
he'll  be  to  her,  and  the  better  it  '11  be  for  all  parties  con 
cerned.  Every  time !  Don't  forget  that,  old  lady.  Why, 
there's  J.  J.  Vance  at  our  shop.  Married  one  of  these 
up-dee-dee,  poetry-reading,  finicky  women.  Why,  he  did 
everything  for  that  woman.  Got  a  swell  little  house  in 
Yonkers,  and  a  vacuum  cleaner,  and  a  hired  girl,  and 
everything.  Then,  my  God!  she  said  she  was  lonely! 
Didn't  have  enough  housework,  that  was  the  trouble 

[254] 


THE   JOB 

'with  her;  and  darned  if  she  doesn't  kick  when  J.  J.  comes 
in  all  played  out  at  night  because  he  makes  himself  com 
fortable  and  sits  around  in  his  shirt-sleeves  and  slippers. 
Tell  you,  the  first  thing  these  women  have  gotta  learn  is 
that  a  man's  a  man,  and  if  they  learn  that  they  won't 
need  a  vote!'* 

Mr.  Schwirtz's  notion  of  being  a  man  was  to  perform 
all  hygienic  processes  as  publicly  as  the  law  permitted. 
Apparently  he  was  proud  of  his  God-given  body — though 
it  had  been  slightly  bloated  since  God  had  given  it  to 
him — and  wanted  to  inspire  her  not  only  with  the  artistic 
vision  of  it,  but  with  his  care  for  it.  ...  His  thick  woolen 
undergarments  were  so  uncompromisingly  wooleny. 

Nor  had  Mr.  Schwirtz  any  false  modesty  in  his  speech. 
If  Una  had  made  out  a  list  of  all  the  things  she  considered 
the  most  banal  or  nauseatingly  vulgar,  she  would  have 
included  most  of  the  honest  fellow's  favorite  subjects. 
And  at  least  once  a  day  he  mentioned  his  former  wife. 
At  a  restaurant  dinner  he  gave  a  full  account  of  her  death, 
embalming,  and  funeral. 

Una  identified  him  with  vulgarity  so  completely  that 
she  must  often  have  been  unjust  to  him.  At  least  she 
was  surprised  now  and  then  by  a  reassertion  that  he  was 
a  "highbrow,"  and  that  he  decidedly  disapproved  of  any 
sort  of  vulgarity.  Several  times  this  came  out  when  he 
found  her  reading  novels  which  were  so  coarsely  realistic 
as  to  admit  the  sex  and  sweat  of  the  world. 

"Even  if  they  are  true  to  life,"  he  said,  "I  don't  see 
why  it's  necessaiy  to  drag  in  unpleasant  subjects.  I  tell 
you  a  fella  gets  too  much  of  bad  things  in  this  world 
without  reading  about  'em  in  books.  Trouble  with  all 
these  *  realists '  as  you  call  'em,  is  that  they're  such  dirty- 
minded  hounds  themselves  that  all  they  can  see  in  life 

is  the  bad  side." 

[255] 


THE   JOB 

Una  surmised  that  the  writers  of  such  novels  might, 
perhaps,  desire  to  show  the  bad  side  in  the  hope  that  life 
might  be  made  more  beautiful.  But  she  wasn't  quite  sure 
of  it,  and  she  suffered  herself  to  be  overborne,  when  he 
snorted:  "Nonsense!  These  fellas  are  just  trying  to  show 
how  sensational  they  can  be,  t'  say  nothing  of  talking  like 
they  was  so  damn  superior  to  the  rest  of  us.  Don't  read 
'em.  Read  pure  authors  like  Howard  Bancock  Binch, 
where,  whenever  any  lady  gets  seduced  or  anything  like 
that,  the  author  shows  it's  because  the  villain  is  an  atheist 
or  something,  and  he  treats  all  those  things  in  a  nice,  fine, 
decent  manner.  Good  Gawd!  sometimes  a  fella  'd  think, 
to  see  you  scrooge  up  your  nose  when  I'm  shaving,  that 
I'm  common  as  dirt,  but  lemme  tell  you,  right  now,  miss, 
I'm  a  darn  sight  too  refined  to  read  any  of  these  nasty 
novels  where  they  go  to  the  trouble  of  describing  homes 
that  ain't  any  better  than  pig-pens.  Oh,  and  another 
thing!  I  heard  you  telling  Mrs.  Sanderson  you  thought 
all  kids  oughta  have  sex  education.  My  Gawd!  I  don't 
know  where  you  get  those  rotten  ideas!  Certainly  not 
from  me.  Lemme  tell  you,  no  kid  of  mine  is  going  to  be 
made  nasty-minded  by  having  a  lot  of  stuff  like  that 
taught  her.  Yes,  sir,  actually  taught  her  right  out  in 
school." 

Una  was  sufficiently  desirous  of  avoiding  contention  to. 
keep  to  novels  which  portrayed  life — offices  and  family; 
hotels  and  perspiratory  husbands — as  all  for  the  best. 
But  now  and  then  she  doubted,  and  looked  up  from  the 
pile  of  her  husband's  white-footed  black-cotton  socks  to 
question  whether  life  need  be  confined  to  Panama  and 
Pemberton  and  Schwirtz. 

In  deference  to  Mr.  Schwirtz's  demands  on  the  novelists, 
one  could  scarce  even  suggest  the  most  dreadful  scene  in 
Una's  life,  lest  it  be  supposed  that  other  women  really  are 

[256] 


THE    JOB 

subject  to  such  horror,  or  that  the  statistics  regarding  im 
moral  diseases  really  mean  anything  in  households  such 
as  we  ourselves  know.  .  .  .  She  had  reason  to  suppose  that 
her  husband  was  damaged  goods.  She  crept  to  an  old 
family  doctor  and  had  a  fainting  joy  to  find  that  she  had 
escaped  contamination. 

"Though,"  said  the  doctor,  "I  doubt  if  it  would  be 
wise  to  have  a  child  of  his." 

"I  won't!"  she  said,  grimly. 

She  knew  the  ways  of  not  having  children.  The  prac 
tical  Mr.  Schwirtz  had  seen  to  that.  Strangely  enough, 
he  did  not  object  to  birth-control,  even  though  it  was 
discussed  by  just  the  sort  of  people  who  wrote  these  sen 
sational  realistic  novels. 

There  were  periods  of  reaction  when  she  blamed  her 
self  for  having  become  so  set  in  antipathy  that  she 
always  looked  for  faults;  saw  as  a  fault  even  the 
love  for  amusements  which  had  once  seemed  a  virtue 
in  him. 

She  tried,  wistfully  and  honestly,  to  be  just.  She  re 
minded  herself  constantly  that  she  had  enjoyed  some  of 
the  parties  with  him — theater  and  a  late  supper,  with  a 
couple  just  back  from  South  America. 

But — there  were  so  many  "buts"!    Life  was  all  one/ 
obliterating  But. 

Her  worst  moments  were  when  she  discovered  that  she 
had  grown  careless  about  appearing  before  him  in  that 
drabbest,  most  ignoble  of  feminine  attire — a  pair  of  old 
corsets;  that  she  was  falling  into  his  own  indelicacies. 

Such  marionette  tragedies  mingled  ever  with  the  grander 
passion  of  seeing  life  as  a  ruined  thing;  her  birthright  to 
aspiring  cleanness  sold  for  a  mess  of  quick-lunch  pottage. 
And  as  she  walked  in  a  mist  of  agony,  a  dumb,  blind 

creature  heroically  distraught,  she  could  scarce  distinguish 

[257] 


THE   JOB 

between  sordidness  and  the  great  betrayals,  so  chill  and 
thick  was  the  fog  about  her. 

She  thought  of  suicide,  often,  but  too  slow  and  sullen 
was  her  protest  for  the  climax  of  suicide.  And  the  com 
mon  sense  which  she  still  had  urged  her  that  some  day, 
incredibly,  there  might  again  be  hope.  Oftener  she  thought 
of  a  divorce.  Of  that  she  had  begun  to  think  even  on  the 
second  day  of  her  married  life.  She  suspected  that  it 
would  not  be  hard  to  get  a  divorce  on  statutory  grounds. 
Whenever  Mr.  Schwirtz  came  back  from  a  trip  he  would 
visibly  remove  from  his  suit-case  bunches  of  letters  in 
cheaply  pretentious  envelopes  of  pink  and  lavender.  She 
scorned  to  try  to  read  them,  but  she  fancied  that  they 
would  prove  interesting  to  the  judges. 

§2 

When  Mr.  Schwirtz  was  away  Una  was  happy  by  con 
trast.  Indeed  she  found  a  more  halcyon  rest  than  at 
any  other  period  since  her  girlhood;  and  in  long  hours  of 
thinking  and  reading  and  trying  to  believe  in  life,  the 
insignificant  good  little  thing  became  a  calm-browed 
woman. 

Mrs.  Lawrence  had  married  the  doctor  and  gone  off 
to  Ohio.  They  motored  much,  she  wrote,  and  read 
aloud,  and  expected  a  baby.  Una  tried  to  be  happy  in 
them. 

Una  had  completely  got  out  of  touch  with  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Sessions,  but  after  her  marriage  she  had  gone  to  call 
on  Mamie  Magen,  now  prosperous  and  more  earnest  than 
ever,  in  a  Greenwich  Village  flat;  on  Jennie  Cassavant, 
sometime  of  the  Home  Club,  now  obscurely  on  the  stage; 
on  curly-haired  Rose  Larsen,  who  had  married  a  young 
lawyer.  But  Una  had  fancied  that  they  were  suspiciously 

[258] 


THE    JOB 

kind  to  her,  and  in  angry  pride  she  avoided  them.  She 
often  wondered  what  they  had  heard  about  Mr.  Schwirtz 
from  the  talkative  Mrs.  Lawrence.  She  conceived  scenes 
in  which  she  was  haughtily  rhapsodic  in  defending  her 
good,  sensible  husband  before  them.  Then  she  would 
long  for  them  and  admit  that  doubtless  she  had  merely 
imagined  their  supercilious  pity.  But  she  could  not  go 
back  to  them  as  a  beggar  for  friendship. 

Also,  though  she  never  admitted  this  motive  to  herself, 
she  was  always  afraid  that  some  day,  if  she  kept  in  touch 
with  them,  her  husband  would  demand :  "  Why  don't  you 
trot  out  these  fussy  lady  friends  of  yours?  Ashamed  of 
me,  eh?" 

So  she  drifted  away  from  them,  and  at  times  when  she 
could  not  endure  solitariness  she  depended  upon  the 
women  of  the  family  hotel,  whom  she  met  in  the  corridors 
and  cafe  and  "parlor." 

The  aristocrats  among  them,  she  found,  were  the  wives 
of  traveling  salesmen,  good  husbands  and  well  loved, 
most  of  them,  writing  to  their  wives  daily  and  longing  for 
the  time  when  they  could  have  places  hi  the  suburbs, 
with  room  for  chickens  and  children  and  love.  These 
aristocrats  mingled  only  with  the  sound  middle-class  of 
the  hotel  women,  whose  husbands  were  clerks  and  book 
keepers  resident  in  the  city,  or  traveling  machinery  ex 
perts  who  went  about  installing  small  power-plants.  They 
gossiped  with  Una  about  the  husbands  of  the  declasse 
women — men  suspected  to  be  itinerant  quack  doctors, 
sellers  of  dubious  mining  or  motor  stock,  or  even  crooks 
and  gamblers. 

There  was  a  group  of  three  or  four  cheery,  buxom,  much- 
bediamonded,  much-massaged  women,  whose  occasion 
ally  appearing  husbands  were  sleek  and  overdressed.  To 
Una  these  women  were  cordial.  They  invited  her  to  go 

[259] 


THE    JOB 

shopping,  to  matinees.  But  they  stopped  so  often  for 
cocktails,  they  told  so  many  intimate  stories  of  their  re 
lations  with  their  husbands,  that  Una  was  timid  before 
them,  and  edged  away  from  their  invitations  except 
when  she  was  desperately  lonely.  Doubtless  she  learned 
more  about  the  mastery  of  people  from  them,  however, 
than  from  the  sighing,  country-bred  hotel  women  of  whom 
she  was  more  fond;  for  the  cheerful  hussies  had  learned 
to  make  the  most  of  their  shoddy  lives. 

Only  one  woman  in  the  hotel  did  Una  accept  as  an  actual 
friend — Mrs.  Wade,  a  solid,  slangy,  contented  woman 
with  a  child  to  whom  she  was  devoted.  She  had,  she  told 
Una,  "been  stuck  with  a  lemon  of  a  husband.  He  was 
making  five  thousand  a  year  when  I  married  him,  and  thetk 
he  went  to  pieces.  Good-looking,  but  regular  poor  white 
trash.  So  I  cleaned  house — kicked  him  out.  He's  in 
Boston  now.  Touches  me  for  a  ten-spot  now  and  then, 
I  support  myself  and  the  kid  by  working  for  a  department 
store.  I'm  a  wiz.  at  bossing  dressmakers — make  a  Lucile 
gown  out  of  the  rind  of  an  Edam  cheese.  Take  nothing 
off  nobody — especially  you  don't  see  me  taking  any  more 
husbands  off  nobody." 

Mostly,  Una  was  able  to  make  out  an  existence  by  her 
self. 

She  read  everything  —  from  the  lacy  sentimentalism 
of  Myrtle  Read  to  Samuel  Butler  and  translations  of 
Gorky  and  Flaubert.  She  nibbled  at  histories  of  art,  and 
was  confirmed  in  her  economic  theology  by  shallow  but 
earnest  manuals  of  popular  radicalism.  She  got  books 
from  a  branch  public  library,  or  picked  them  up  at  second 
hand  stalls.  At  first  she  was  determined  to  be  "serious" 
in  her  reading,  but  more  and  more  she  took  light  fiction 
as  a  drug  to  numb  her  nerves — and  forgot  the  tales  as 
soon  as  she  had  read  them. 

[260] 


THE   JOB  ^ 

In  ten  years  of  such  hypnotic  reading  Mrs.  Una  Golden 
Schwirtz  would  not  be  very  different  from  that  Mrs. 
Captain  Golden  who,  alone  in  a  flat,  had  read  all  day,  and 
forgotten  what  she  had  read,  and  let  life  dream  into  death. 

But  now  Una  was  still  fighting  to  keep  in  life. 

She  began  to  work  out  her  first  definite  philosophy  of 
existence.  In  essence  it  was  not  so  very  different  from  the 
blatant  optimism  of  Mr.  S.  Herbert  Ross — except  that  it 
was  sincere. 

"Life  is  hard  and  astonishingly  complicated,"  she  con 
cluded.     "No  one  great  reform  will  make  it  easy.    Most 
of  us  who  work — or  want  to  work — will  always  have     . 
trouble  or  discontent.    So  we  must  learn  to  be  calm,  and 
train  all  our  faculties,  and  make  others  happy." 

No  more  original  than  this  was  her  formulated  philoso 
phy — the  commonplace  creed  of  a  commonplace  woman 
in  a  rather  less  than  commonplace  family  hotel.    The  im-  / 
portant  thing  was  not  the  form  of  it,  but  her  resolve  not? 
to  sink  into  nothingness.  .  *  .  She  hoped  that  some  day  N 
she  would  get  a  job  again.     She  sometimes  borrowed  a    / 
typewriter  from  the  manager  of  the  hotel,  and  she  took  / 
down  in  shorthand  the  miscellaneous  sermons — by  Bapy 
tists,   Catholics,   Reformed  rabbis,    Christian   Scientists, 
theosophists,  High  Church  Episcopalians,  Hindu  yogis, 
or  any  one  else  handy — with  which  she  filled  up  her  dull 
Sundays.     .  .  .  Except  as  practice  in  stenography  she 
found  their  conflicting  religions  of  little  value  to  lighten 
her  life.    The  ministers  seemed  so  much  vaguer  than  the 
hard-driving  business  men  with  whom  she  had  worked; 
and  the  question  of  what  Joshua  had  done  seemed  to 
have  little  relation  to  what  Julius  Schwirtz  was  likely  to 
do.     The  city  had  come  between  her  and  the  Panama 
belief  that  somehow,  mysteriously,  one  acquired  virtue 

by  enduring  dull  sermons. 

[261] 


THE    JOB 

She  depended  more  on  her  own  struggle  to  make  a 
philosophy. 

That  philosophy,  that  determination  not  to  sink  into 
paralyzed  despair,  often  broke  down  when  her  husband 
was  in  town,  but  she  never  gave  up  trying  to  make  it 
vital  to  her. 

So,  through  month  on  month,  she  read,  rocking  slowly 
in  the  small,  wooden  rocker,  or  lying  on  the  coarse- 
coverleted  bed,  while  round  her  the  hotel  room  was  still 
and  stale-smelling  and  fixed,  and  outside  the  window 
passed  the  procession  of  life — trucks  laden  with  crates  of 
garments  consigned  to  Kansas  City  and  Bangor  and 
Seattle  and  Bemidji;  taxicabs  with  passengers  for  the 
mammoth  hotels;  office-girls  and  policemen  and  sales 
men  and  all  the  lusty  crew  that  had  conquered  the  city 
or  were  well  content  to  be  conquered  by  it.  / 


CHAPTER  XVII 

LATE  in  the  summer  of  1912,  at  a  time  when  Una  did 
not  expect  the  return  of  her  husband  for  at  least 
three  weeks,  she  was  in  their  room  in  the  afternoon,  read 
ing  "Salesmanship  for  Women,"  and  ruminatively  eating 
lemon-drops  from  a  small  bag. 

As  though  he  were  a  betrayed  husband  dramatically 
surprising  her,  Mr.  Schwirtz  opened  the  door,  dropped 
a  large  suit-case,  and  stood,  glaring. 

"Well!"  he  said,  with  no  preliminary,  "so  here  you  aref 
For  once  you  could — 

"Why,  Ed!    I  didn't  expect  to  see  you  for—" 

He  closed  the  door  and  gesticulated.  "No!  Of  course 
you  didn't.  WTiy  ain't  you  out  with  some  of  your  swell 
friends  that  I  ain't  good  enough  to  meet,  shopping,  and 
buying  dresses,  and  God  knows  what — " 

"Why,  Ed!" 

"Oh,  don't  'why-Ed'  me!  Well,  ain't  you  going  to 
come  and  kiss  me?  Nice  reception  when  a  man's  come 
home  tired  from  a  hard  trip — wife  so  busy  reading  a  book 
that  she  don't  even  get  up  from  her  chair  and  make  him 
welcome  in  his  own  room  that  he  pays  for  Yes,  by — " 

"Why,  you  didn't — you  don't  act  as  though — " 

"Yes,  sure,  that's  right;  lay  it  all  on — " 
— you  wanted  me  to  kiss  you." 

"Well,  neither  would  anybody  if  they'd  had  all  the 
worries  I've  had,  sitting  there  worrying  on  a  slow,  hot 

[263] 


THE    JOB 

train  that  stopped  at  every  pig-pen — yes,  and  on  a  day- 
coach,  too,  by  golly!  Somebody  in  this  family  has  got  to 
economize! — while  you  sit  here  cool  and  comfortable; 
not  a  thing  on  your  mind  but  your  hair;  not  a  thing  to 
worry  about  except  thinking  how  damn  superior  you  are 
to  your  husband !  Oh,  sure !  But  I  made  up  my  mind — I 
thought  it  all  out  for  once,  and  I  made  up  my  mind  to  one 
thing,  you  can  help  me  out  by  economizing,  anyway." 

"Oh,  Ed,  I  don't  know  what  you're  driving  at.  I 
haven't  been  extravagant,  ever.  Why,  I've  asked  you  any 
number  of  times  not  to  spend  so  much  money  for  suppers 
and  so  forth — " 

"Yes,  sure,  lay  it  all  onto  me.  I'm  fair  game  for  every 
body  that's  looking  for  a  nice,  soft,  easy,  safe  boob  to 
kick!  Why,  look  there!" 

While  she  still  sat  marveling  he  pounced  on  the  meek 
little  five-cent  bag  of  lemon-drops,  shook  it  as  though  it 
were  a  very  small  kitten,  and  whined:  "Look  at  this! 
Candy  or  something  all  the  while!  You  never  have  a 
single  cent  left  when  I  come  home — candy  and  ice-cream 
sodas,  and  matinees,  and  dresses,  and  everything  you 
can  think  of.  If  it  ain't  one  thing,  it's  another.  Well, 
you'll  either  save  from  now  on — " 

"Look  here!  What  do  you  mean,  working  off  your 
grouch  on — 

1 — or  else  you  won't  have  anything  to  spend,  un'er- 
stand?  And  when  it  comes  down  to  talking  about  grouches 
I  suppose  you'll  be  real  pleased  to  know — this  will  be 
sweet  news,  probably,  to  you — I've  been  fired!" 

"Fired?    Oh,  Ed!" 

"Yes,  fired-oh-Ed.  Canned.  Got  the  gate.  Thrown 
out.  Got  the  razzle-dazzle.  Got  the  hook  thrown  into 
me.  Bounced.  Kiyudeled.  That  is,  at  least,  I  will  be, 
as  soon  as  I  let  the  old  man  get  at  me,  judging  from  the 

[264] 


THE    JOB 

love-letters  he's  been  sending  me,  inviting  me  to  cut  a 
switch  and  come  out  to  the  wood-shed  with  him." 

"Oh,  Ed  dear,  what  was  the  trouble?" 

She  walked  up  to  him,  laid  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 
Her  voice  was  earnest,  her  eyes  full  of  pity.  He  patted 
her  hand,  seemed  from  her  gentle  nearness  to  draw  com 
fort — not  passion.  He  slouched  over  to  the  bed,  and  sat 
with  his  thick  legs  stuck  out  in  front  of  him,  his  hands  in 
his  trousers  pockets,  while  he  mused: 

"Oh,  I  don't  hardly  know  what  it  is  all  about.  My 
sales  have  been  falling  off,  all  rightee.  But,  good  Lord! 
that's  no  fault  of  mine.  I  work  my  territory  jus'  as  hard 
as  I  ever  did,  but  I  can't  meet  the  competition  of  the 
floor-wax  people.  They're  making  an  auto  polish  now — 
better  article  at  a  lower  price — and  what  can  I  do?  They 
got  a  full  line,  varnish,  cleaner,  polish,  swell  window  dis 
plays,  national  advertising,  swell  discounts — everything; 
and  I  can't  buck  competition  like  that.  And  then  a  lot 
of  the  salesmen  at  our  shop  are  jealous  of  me,  and  one 
thing  and  another.  Well,  now  I'll  go  down  and  spit 
the  old  man  in  the  eye  couple  o'  times,  and  get  canned, 
unless  I  can  talk  him  out  of  his  bad  acting.  Oh,  I'll 
throw  a  big  bluff.  I'll  be  the  little  misunderstood  boy, 
but  I  don't  honestly  think  I  can  put  anything  across  on 
him.  I'm —  Oh,  hell,  I  guess  I'm  getting  old.  I  ain't  got 
the  pep  I  used  to  have.  Not  but  what  J.  Eddie  Schwirtz 
can  still  sell  goods,  but  I  can't  talk  up  to  the  boss  like  I 
could  once.  I  gotta  feel  some  sympathy  at  the  home  office. 
And  I  by  God  deserve  it — way  I've  worked  and  slaved  for 
that  bunch  of  cutthroats,  and  now —  Sure,  that's  the  way 
it  goes  in  this  world.  I  tell  you,  I'm  gonna  turn  socialist!" 

"Ed — listen,  Ed.  Please,  oh,  please  don't  be  offended 
now;  but  don't  you  think  perhaps  the  boss  thinks  you 
drink  too  much?" 

18  [265] 


THE    JOB 

"How  could  he?  I  don't  drink  very  much,  and  you 
know  it.  I  don't  hardly  touch  a  drop,  except  maybe  just 
for  sociability.  God!  this  temperance  wave  gets  my 
goat!  Lot  of  hot-air  females  telling  me  what  I  can  do 
and  what  I  can't  do — fella  that  knows  when  to  drink  and 
when  to  stop.  Drink?  Why,  you  ought  to  see  some  of 
the  boys!  There's  Burke  McCullough.  Say,  I  bet  he 
puts  away  forty  drinks  a  day,  if  he  does  one,  and  I  don't 
know  that  it  hurts  him  any;  but  me — " 

"Yes,  I  know,  dear.  I  was  just  thinking — maybe  your 
boss  is  one  of  the  temperance  cranks,"  Una  interrupted. 
Mr.  Schwirtz's  arguments  regarding  the  privileges  of  a 
manly  man  sounded  very  familiar.  This  did  not  seem 
to  be  a  moment  for  letting  her  husband  get  into  the  full 
swing  of  them.  She  begged:  "What  will  you  do  if  they 
let  you  out?  I  wish  there  was  something  I  could  do  to 
help." 

"Dun'no*.  There's  a  pretty  close  agreement  between  a 
lot  of  the  leading  paint-and-varnish  people — gentleman's 
agreement — and  it's  pretty  hard  to  get  in  any  place  if 
you're  in  Dutch  with  any  of  the  others.  Well,  I'm  going 
down  now  and  watch  'em  gwillotine  me.  You  better  not 
wait  to  have  dinner  with  me.  I'll  be  there  late,  thrashing 
all  over  the  carpet  with  the  old  man,  and  then  I  gotta 
see  some  fellas  and  start  something.  Come  here,  Una." 

He  stood  up.  She  came  to  him,  and  when  he  put  his 
two  hands  on  her  shoulders  she  tried  to  keep  her  aversion 
to  his  touch  out  of  her  look. 

He  shook  his  big,  bald  head.  He  was  unhappy  and 
his  eyes  were  old.  "Nope,"  he  said;  "nope.  Can't  be 
done.  You  mean  well,  but  you  haven't  got  any  fire  in  you. 
Kid,  can't  you  understand  that  there  are  wives  who've 
got  so  much  passion  in  'em  that  if  their  husbands  came 
home  clean-licked,  like  I  am,  they'd — oh,  their  husbands 

[266] 


THE    JOB 

woufd  just  naturally  completely  forget  their  troubles  in 
love — real  love,  with  fire  in  it.  Women  that  aren't 
ashamed  of  having  bodies.  .  .  .  But,  oh,  Lord!  it  ain't 
your  fault.  I  shouldn't  have  said  anything.  There's 
lots  of  wives  like  you.  More  'n  one  man's  admitted  his 
wife  was  like  that,  when  he's  had  a  couple  drinks  under 
his  belt  to  loosen  his  tongue.  You're  not  to  blame,  but — 
I'm  sorry.  .  .  .  Don't  mind  my  grouch  when  I  came  in. 
I  was  so  hot,  and  I'd  been  worrying  and  wanted  to  blame 
things  onto  somebody.  .  .  .  Don't  wait  for  me  at  dinner. 
If  I  ain't  here  by  seven,  go  ahead  and  feed.  Good-by." 

§2  ' 

All  she  knew  was  that  at  six  a  woman's  purring  voice 
on  the  telephone  asked  if  Mr.  Eddie  Schwirtz  had  re 
turned  to  town  yet.  That  he  did  not  reappear  till  after 
midnight.  That  his  return  was  heralded  by  wafting 
breezes  with  whisky  laden.  That,  in  the  morning,  there 
was  a  smear  of  rice  powder  on  his  right  shoulder  and 
that  he  was  not  so  urgent  in  his  attentions  to  her  as  or 
dinarily.  So  her  sympathy  for  him  was  lost.  But  she 
discovered  that  she  was  neither  jealous  nor  indignant — 
merely  indifferent. 

He  told  her  at  breakfast  that,  with  his  usual  discern 
ment,  he  had  guessed  right.  When  he  had  gone  to  the 
office  he  had  been  discharged. 

"Went  out  with  some  business  acquaintances  in  the 
evening — got  to  pull  all  the  wires  I  can  now,"  he  said. 

She  said  nothing. 


They  had  less  than  two  hundred  dollars  ahead.     But 
Mr.  Schwirtz  borrowed  a  hundred  from  his  friend,  Burke 

[267] 


THE    JOB 

McCullough,  and  did  not  visibly  have  to  suffer  from  want 
of  highballs,  cigars,  and  Turkish  baths.  From  the  window 
of  their  room  Una  used  to  see  him  cross  the  street  to 
the  cafe  entrance  of  the  huge  Saffron  Hotel — and  once 
she  saw  him  emerge  from  it  with  a  fluffy  blonde.  But  she 
did  not  attack  him.  She  was  spellbound  in  a  strange 
apathy,  as  in  a  dream  of  swimming  on  forever  in  a  warm 
and  slate-hued  sea.  She  was  confident  that  he  would 
soon  have  another  position.  He  had  over-ridden  her  own 
opinions  about  business — the  opinions  of  the  underling 
who  never  sees  the  great  work  as  a  rounded  whole — till 
she  had  come  to  have  a  timorous  respect  for  his  commercial 
ability. 

Apparently  her  wifely  respect  was  not  generally  shared 
in  the  paint  business.  At  least  Mr.  Schwirtz  did  not 
soon  get  his  new  position. 

The  manager  of  the  hotel  came  to  the  room  with  his 
bill  and  pressed  for  payment.  And  after  three  weeks — 
after  a  night  when  he  had  stayed  out  very  late  and  come 
home  reeking  with  perfume — Mr.  Schwirtz  began  to  hang 
about  the  room  all  day  long  and  to  soak  himself  in  the 
luxury  of  complaining  despair. 

Then  came  the  black  days. 

There  were  several  scenes  (during  which  she  felt  like 
a  beggar  about  to  be  arrested)  between  Mr.  Schwirtz  and 
the  landlord,  before  her  husband  paid  part  of  a  bill  whose 
size  astounded  her. 

Mr.  Schwirtz  said  that  he  was  "expecting  something  to 
turn  up — nothin'  he  could  do  but  wait  for  some  telephone 
calls."  He  sat  about  with  his  stockinged  feet  cocked  up 
on  the  bed,  reading  detective  stories  till  he  fell  asleep  in 
his  chair.  He  drank  from  unlabeled  pint  flasks  of  whisky 
all  day.  Once,  when  she  opened  a  bureau  drawer  of  his 
by  mistake,  she  saw  half  a  dozen  whisky-flasks  mixed 

[268] 


THE   JOB 

with  grimy  collars,  and  the  sour  smell  nauseated  her. 
But  on  food — they  had  to  economize  on  that!  He  took 
her  to  a  restaurant  of  fifteen-cent  breakfasts  and  twenty- 
five-cent  dinners.  It  was  the  "parlor  floor"  of  an  old 
brownstone  house  —  two  rooms,  with  eggy  table-cloths, 
and  moldings  of  dusty  stucco. 

She  avoided  his  presence  as  much  as  possible.  Mrs. 
Wade,  the  practical  dressmaker,  who  was  her  refuge 
among  the  women  of  the  hotel,  seemed  to  understand 
what  was  going  on,  and  gave  Una  a  key  to  her  room. 
Here  Una  sat  for  hours.  When  she  went  back  to  their 
room  quarrels  would  spring  up  apropos  of  anything  or 
nothing. 

The  fault  was  hers  as  much  as  his.  She  was  no  longer 
trying  to  conceal  her  distaste,  while  he,  who  had  a  marital 
conscience  of  a  sort,  was  almost  pathetic  in  his  apologies 
for  being  unable  to  "show  her  a  good  time."  And  he 
wanted  her  soothing.  He  was  more  and  more  afraid  of 
her  as  the  despair  of  the  jobless  man  in  the  hard  city 
settled  down  on  him.  He  wanted  her  to  agree  with  him 
that  there  was  a  conspiracy  against  him. 

She  listened  to  him  and  said  nothing,  till  he  would  burst 
out  in  abuse: 

"You  women  that  have  been  in  business  simply  ain't 
fit  to  be  married.  You  think  you're  too  good  to  help  a 
man.  Yes,  even  when  you  haven't  been  anything  but 
dub  stenographers.  I  never  noticed  that  you  were  such 
a  whale  of  a  success !  I  don't  suppose  you  remember  how 
you  used  to  yawp  to  me  about  the  job  being  too  much 
for  you!  And  yet  when  I  want  a  little  sympathy  you  sit 
there  and  hand  me  the  frozen  stare  like  you  were  the 
president  of  the  Standard  Oil  Company  and  I  was  a 
bum  office-boy.  Yes,  sir,  I  tell  you  business  simply  unfits 
a  skirt  for  marriage." 

[269] 


THE    JOB 

"No,"  she  said,  "not  for  marriage  that  has  any 
love  and  comradeship  in  it.  But  I  admit  a  business 
woman  doesn't  care  to  put  up  with  being  a  cow  in  a 
stable/' 

"What  the  devil  do  you  mean — " 

"Maybe,"  she  went  on,  "the  business  women  will 
bring  about  a  new  kind  of  marriage  in  which  men  will 
have  to  keep  up  respect  and  courtesy.  ...  I  wonder — I 
wonder  how  many  millions  of  women  in  what  are  sup 
posed  to  be  happy  homes  are  sick  over  being  chamber 
maids  and  mistresses  till  they  get  dulled  and  used  to  it. 
Nobody  will  ever  know.  All  these  books  about  women 
being  emancipated — you'd  think  marriage  had  changed 
entirely.  Yet,  right  now,  in  1912,  in  Panama  and  this 
hotel — not  changed  a  bit.  The  business  women  must 
simply  compel  men  to — oh,  to  shave !" 

She  went  out  (perhaps  she  slammed  the  door  a  little, 
in  an  unemancipated  way)  to  Mrs.  Wade's  room. 

That  discussion  was  far  more  gentle  and  coherent  than 
most  of  their  quarrels. 

It  may  have  been  rather  to  tne  credit  of  Mr.  Schwirtz 
— it  may  have  been  a  remnant  of  the  clean  pride 
which  the  boy  Eddie  Schwirtz  must  once  have  had, 
that,  whenever  she  hinted  that  she  would  like  to  go 
back  to  work — he  raged:  "So  you  think  I  can't  sup 
port  you,  eh?  My  God!  I  can  stand  insults  from 
all  my  old  friends — the  fellas  that  used  to  be  tickled 
to  death  to  have  me  buy  'em  a  drink,  but  now  they 
dodge  around  the  corner  as  though  they  thought  I 
was  going  to  try  to  borrow  four  bits  from  'em — I  can 
stand  their  insults,  but,  by  God!  it  is  pretty  hard  on 
a  man  when  his  own  wife  lets  him  know  that  she  don't 
think  he  can  support  her!" 

And  he  meant  it. 

[270] 


THE    JOB 

She  saw  that,  felt  his  resentment.    But  she  more  and 
more  often  invited  an  ambition  to  go  back  to  work,  to 
be  independent  and  busy,  no  matter  how  weary  she  might  ; 
become.    To  die,  if  need  be,  in  the  struggle.     Certainly^ 
that  death  would  be  better  than  being  choked  in  mueKT 
.  .  .  One  of  them  would  have  to  go  to  work,  anyway. 

She  discovered  that  an  old  acquaintance  of  his  had 
offered  him  an  eighteen-dollar-a-week  job  as  a  clerk  in 
a  retail  paint-shop,  till  he  should  find  something  better. 
Mr.  Schwirtz  was  scornful  about  it,  and  his  scorn,  which 
had  once  intimidated  Una,  became  grotesquely  absurd  to 
her. 

Then  the  hotel-manager  came  with  a  curt  ultimatum: 
"Pay  up  or  get  out,"  he  said. 

Mr.  Schwirtz  spent  an  hour  telephoning  to  various 
acquaintances,  trying  to  raise  another  hundred  dollars. 
He  got  the  promise  of  fifty.  He  shaved,  put  on  a 
collar  that  for  all  practical  purposes  was  quite  clean, 
and  went  out  to  collect  his  fifty  as  proudly  as  though 
he  had  earned  it. 

Una  stared  at  herself  in  the  mirror  over  the  bureau,  and  \ 
said,  aloud :  "  I  don't  believe  it !  It  isn't  you,  Una  Golden, 
that  worked,  and  paid  your  debts.  You  can't,  dear,  you 
simply  can't  be  the  wife  of  a  man  who  lives  by  begging — 
a  dirty,  useless,  stupid  beggar.  Oh,  no,  no!  You  wouldn't  • 
do  that — you  couldn't  marry  a  man  like  that  simply  be 
cause  the  job  had  exhausted  you.  Why,  you'd  die  at 
work  first.  Why,  if  you  married  him  for  board  and  keep, 
you'd  be  a  prostitute — you'd  be  marrying  him  just  be 
cause  he  was  a  'good  provider/  And  probably,  when 
he  didn't  provide  any  more,  you'd  be  quitter  enough  to 
leave  him — maybe  for  another  man.  You  couldn't  do 
that.  I  don't  believe  life  could  bully  you  into  doing  that. 
»  .  .  Oh,  I'm  hysterical;  I'm  mad.  I  can't  believe  I  am 

[271] 


THE   JOB 

what  I  am — and  yet  I  am! ...  Now  he's  getting  that  fifty 
and  buying  a  drink — " 

§4 

Mr.  Schwirtz  actually  came  home  with  forty-five  out 
of  the  fifty  intact.  That  was  because  he  wanted  to  be 
able  to  pay  the  hotel-manager  and  insultingly  inform 
him  that  they  were  going  to  leave.  .  .  .  The  manager  bore 
up  under  the  blow.  .  .  .  They  did  move  to  a  "furnished 
housekeeping-room"  on  West  Nineteenth  Street — in  the 
very  district  of  gray  rooms  and  pathetic  landladies  where 
Una  had  sought  a  boarding-house  after  the  death  of  her 
mother. 

As  furnished  housekeeping-rooms  go,  theirs  was  highly 
superior.  Most  of  them  are  carpetless,  rusty  and  small  of 
coal-stove,  and  filled  with  cockroaches  and  the  smell  of 
carbolic  acid.  But  the  maison  Schwirtz  was  almost  clean. 
It  had  an  impassioned  green  carpet,  a  bedspring  which 
scarcely  sagged  at  all,  a  gas-range,  and  at  least  a  dozen 
vases  with  rococo  handles  and  blobs  of  gilt. 

"Gee!  this  ain't  so  bad,"  declared  Mr.  Schwirtz.  "We 
can  cook  all  our  eats  here,  and  live  on  next  to  nothing  per, 
till  the  big  job  busts  loose." 

\.  With  which  he  prepared  to  settle  down  to  a  life  of 
leisure.  He  went  out  and  bought  a  pint  of  whisky,  a 
pound  of  steak,  a  pound  of  cheese,  a  loaf  of  bread,  six 
cigars,  and  for  her  a  bar  of  fudge. 

So  far  as  Una  could  calculate,  he  had  less  than  forty 
dollars.  She  burst  out  on  him.  She  seemed  to  be  speak 
ing  with  the  brusque  voice  of  an  accomplishing  man. 
In  that  voice  was  all  she  had  ever  heard  from  executives; 
all  the  subconsciously  remembered  man-driving  force  of 
the  office  world.  She  ordered  him  to  go  and  take  the  job 
in  the  paint-shop — at  eighteen  dollars  a  week,  or  eight 

[272] 


THE   JOB 

dollars  a  week.  She  briefly,  but  thoroughly,  depicted  him 
as  alcohol-soaked,  poor  white  trash.  She  drove  him  out, 
and  when  he  was  gone  she  started  to  make  their  rooms 
presentable,  with  an  energy  she  had  not  shown  for  months. 
She  began  to  dust,  to  plan  curtains  for  the  room,  to  plan 
to  hide  the  bric-a-brac,  to  plan  to  rent  a  typewriter  and 
get  commercial  copying  to  do. 

If  any  one  moment  of  life  is  more  important  than  the 
others,  this  may  have  been  her  crisis,  when  her  husband 
had  become  a  begging  pauper  and  she  took  charge; 
began  not  only  to  think  earnest,  commonplace,  little  Una 
thoughts  about  "mastering  life,"  but  actually  to  master  it. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

SO  long  as  Mr.  Schwirtz  contrived  to  keep  his  position 
in  the  retail  paint-store,  Una  was  busy  at  home, 
copying  documents  and  specifications  and  form-letters  for 
a  stenographic  agency  and  trying  to  make  a  science  of 
quick  and  careful  housework. 

She  suspected  that,  now  he  had  a  little  money  again, 
Mr.  Schwirtz  was  being  riotous  with  other  women — as 
riotous  as  one  can  be  in  New  York  on  eighteen  dollars  a 
week,  with  debts  and  a  wife  to  interfere  with  his  manly 
pleasures.  But  she  did  not  care;  she  was  getting  ready 
to  break  the  cocoon,  and  its  grubbiness  didn't  much 
matter. 

Sex  meant  nothing  between  them  now.  She  did  not 
believe  that  she  would  ever  be  in  love  again,  in  any  phase, 
noble  or  crude.  While  she  aspired  and  worked  she  lived 
like  a  nun  in  a  cell.  And  now  that  she  had  something 
to  do,  she  could  be  sorry  for  him.  She  made  the  best 
possible  dinners  for  him  on  their  gas-range.  She  realized 
— sometimes,  not  often,  for  she  was  not  a  contemplative 
seer,  but  a  battered  woman — that  their  marriage  had  been 
as  unfair  to  him  as  it  was  to  her.  In  small-town  boy- 
gang  talks  behind  barns,  in  clerkly  confidences  as  a  young 
man,  in  the  chatter  of  smoking-cars  and  provincial  hotel 
offices,  he  had  been  trained  to  know  only  two  kinds  of 
women,  both  very  complaisant  to  smart  live- wires:  The 
bouncing  lassies  who  laughed  and  kissed  and  would 

[274] 


THE    JOB 

share  with  a  man  his  pleasures,  such  as  poker  and  cock 
tails,  and  rapid  motoring  to  no  place  in  particular;  and 
the  meek,  attentive,  "refined"  kind,  the  wives  and  moth 
ers  who  cared  for  a  man  and  admired  him  and  believed 
whatever  he  told  them  about  his  business. 

Una  was  of  neither  sort  for  him,  though  for  Walter 
Babson  she  might  have  been  quite  of  the  latter  kind. 
Mr.  Schwirtz  could  not  understand  her,  and  she  was  as 
sorry  for  him  as  was  compatible  with  a  decided  desire  to 
divorce  him  and  wash  off  the  stain  of  his  damp,  pulpy 
fingers  with  the  water  of  life. 

But  she  stayed  home,  and  washed  and  cooked,  and 
earned  money  for  him — till  he  lost  his  retail-store  position 
by  getting  drunk  and  being  haughty  to  a  customer. 

Then  the  chrysalis  burst  and  Una  was  free  again.  Free! 
to  labor,  to  endeavor — to  die,  perhaps,  but  to  die  clean.  ) 
To  quest  and  meet  whatever  surprises  life  might  hold.^x' 

§2 

She  couldn't  go  back  to  Troy  Wilkins's,  nor  to  Mr.  S. 
Herbert  Ross  and  the  little  Pemberton  stenographers 
who  had  enviously  seen  her  go  off  to  be  married.  But  she 
made  a  real  business  of  looking  for  a  job.  While  Mr. 
Schwirtz  stayed  home  and  slept  and  got  mental  bed-sores 
and  drank  himself  to  death — rather  too  slowly — on  an 
other  fifty  dollars  which  he  had  borrowed  after  a  Verdun 
campaign,  Una  was  joyous  to  be  out  early,  looking  over 
advertisements,  visiting  typewriter  companies'  employ 
ment  agencies. 

She  was  slow  in  getting  work  because  she  wanted  twenty 
dollars  a  week.  She  knew  that  any  firm  taking  her  at 
this  wage  would  respect  her  far  more  than  if  she  was  an 
easy  purchase. 

[2751 


THE    JOB 

Work  was  slow  to  come,  and  she,  who  had  always  been 
so  securely  above  the  rank  of  paupers  who  submit  to 
the  dreadful  surgery  of  charity,  became  afraid.  She  went 
at  last  to  Mamie  Magen. 

Mamie  was  now  the  executive  secretary  of  the  Hebrew 
Young  Women's  Professional  Union.  She  seemed  to  be 
a  personage.  In  her  office  she  had  a  secretary  who  spoke 
of  her  with  adoring  awe,  and  when  Una  said  that  she  was 
a  personal  friend  of  Miss  Magen  the  secretary  cried: 
"Oh,  then  perhaps  you'd  like  to  go  to  her  apartment, 

at Washington  Place.  She's  almost  always  home  for 

tea  at  five." 

The  small,  tired-looking  Una,  a  business  woman  again, 
in  her  old  tailor-made  and  a  new,  small  hat,  walked 
longingly  toward  Washington  Place  and  tea. 

In  her  seven  years  in  New  York  she  had  never  known 
anybody  except  S.  Herbert  Ross  who  took  tea  as  a  regular 
function.  It  meant  to  her  the  gentlest  of  all  forms  of 
distinction,  more  appealing  than  riding  in  motors  or  going 
to  the  opera.  That  Mamie  Magen  had,  during  Una's 
own  experience,  evolved  from  a  Home  Club  girl  to  an 
executive  who  had  tea  at  her  apartment  every  afternoon 
was  inspiriting;  meeting  her  an  adventure. 

An  apartment  of  buff-colored  walls  and  not  bad  prints 
was  Mamie's,  small,  but  smooth ;  and  taking  tea  in  a  man 
ner  which  seemed  to  Una  impressively  suave  were  the 
insiders  of  the  young  charity- workers'  circle.  But  Mamie's 
uncouth  face  and  eyes  of  molten  heroism  stood  out  among 
them  all,  and  she  hobbled  over  to  Una  and  kissed  her. 
When  the  cluster  had  thinned,  she  got  Una  aside  and  in 
vited  her  to  the  "Southern  Kitchen,"  on  Washington 
Square. 

Una  did  not  speak  of  her  husband.  "I  want  to  get  on 
the  job  again,  and  I  wish  you'd  help  me.  I  want  something 

[276] 


THE    JOB 

at  twenty  a  week  (I'm  more  than  worth  it)  and  a  chance 
to  really  climb,"  was  all  she  said,  and  Mamie  nodded. 

And  so  they  talked  of  Mrs.  Harriet  Fike  of  the  Home 
Club,  of  dreams  and  work  and  the  fight  for  suffrage. 
Una's  marriage  slipped  away — she  was  ardent  and  un 
stained  again. 

Mamie's  nod  was  worth  months  of  Mr.  Schwirtz's  pro 
fuse  masculine  boasts.  Within  ten  days,  Mamie's  friend, 
Mr.  Fein,  of  Truax  &  Fein,  the  real-estate  people,  sent  for 
Una  and  introduced  her  to  Mr.  Daniel  T.  Truax.  She 
was  told  to  come  to  work  on  the  following  Monday  as 
]\ir.  Truax's  secretary,  at  twenty-one  dollars  a  week. 

She  went  home  defiant,  determined  to  force  her  hus 
band  to  let  her  take  the  job.  .  .  .  She  didn't  need  to  use 
force.  He — slippered  and  drowsy  by  the  window — said: 
"That's  fine;  that  '11  keep  us  going  till  my  big  job  breaks. 
I'll  hear  about  it  by  next  week,  anyway.  Then,  in  three- 
four  weeks  you  can  kick  Truax  &  Fein  in  the  face  and  beat 
it.  Say,  girlie,  that's  fine!  Say,  tell  you  what  I'll  do. 
Let's  have  a  little  party  to  celebrate.  I'll  chase  out  and 
rush  a  growler  of  beer  and  some  wienies — " 

"No!  I've  got  to  go  out  again." 

"Can't  you  stop  just  long  enough  to  have  a  little  cele 
bration?  I — I  been  kind  of  lonely  last  few  days,  little 
sister.  You  been  away  so  much,  and  I'm  too  broke  to  go 
out  and  look  up  the  boys  now." 

He  was  peering  at  her  with  a  real  wistfulness,  but  in 
the  memory  of  Mamie  Magen,  the  lame  woman  of  the 
golden  heart,  Una  could  not  endure  his  cackling  enthusiasm 
about  the  job  he  would  probably  never  get. 

"No,  I'm  sorry — "  she  said,  and  closed  the  door.  From 
the  walk  she  saw  him  puzzled  and  anxious  at  the  window. 
His  face  was  becoming  so  ruddy  and  fatuous  and  babyish. 
She  was  sorry  for  him — but  she  was  not  big  enough  to  do 

[277] 


THE    JOB 

anything  about  it.    Her  sorrow  was  like  sympathy  for  i 
mangy  alley  cat  which  she  could  not  take  home. 

She  had  no  place  to  go.  She  walked  for  hours,  plan 
lessly,  and  dined  at  a  bakery  and  lunch-room  in  Harlem 
Sometimes  she  felt  homeless,  and  always  she  was  pro 
saically  footsore,  but  now  and  then  came  the  understanding 

that  she  again  had  a  chance. 

^ 


CHAPTER   XIX 

SO,  toward  the  end  of  1912,  when  she  was  thirty-one 
years    old,  Mrs.  Una    Golden    Schwirtz   began   her 
business  career,  as  confidential  secretary  to  Mr.  Truax, 
of  Truax  &  Fein. 

Her  old  enemy,  routine,  was  constantly  in  the  field. 
Routine  of  taking  dictation,  of  getting  out  the  letters, 
prompting  Mr.  Truax's  memory  as  to  who  Mrs.  A  was, 
and  what  Mr.  B  had  telephoned,  keeping  plats  and  plans 
and  memoes  in  order,  making  out  cards  regarding  the 
negotiations  with  possible  sellers  of  suburban  estates. 
She  did  not,  as  she  had  hoped,  always  find  this  routine 
one  jolly  round  of  surprises.  She  was  often  weary,  some 
times  bored. 

But  in  the  splendor  of  being  independent  again  and  of 
having  something  to  do  that  seemed  worth  while  she  ' 
was  able  to  get  through  the  details  that  never  changed 
from  day  to  day.  And  she  was  rewarded,  for  the  whole 
job  was  made  fascinating  by  human  contact./  She  found 
herself  enthusiastic  about  most  of  the  people  she  met  at 
Truax  &  Fein's;  she  was  glad  to  talk  with  them,  to  work 
with  them,  to  be  taken  seriously  as  a  brain,  a  loyalty,  a 
woman. 

By  contrast  with  two  years  of  hours  either  empty  or   . 
filled  with  Schwirtz,  the  office-world  was  of  the  loftiest 
dignity.    It  may  have  been  that  some  of  the  men  she  met 
were  Schwirtzes  to  their  wives,  but  to  her  they  had  to  be  \ 
fellow-workers.    She  did  not  believe  that  the  long  hours, 

[279J 


THE    JOB 

the  jealousies,  the  worry,  or  Mr.  Truax's  belief  that  he 
was  several  planes  above  ordinary  humanity,  were  de 
sirable  or  necessary  parts  of  the  life  at  Truax  &  Fein's. 
Here,  too,  she  saw  nine  hours  of  daily  strain  aging  slim 
girls  into  skinny  fjeja$ales>  But  now  her  whole  point  of 
view  was  changed.Xlns±ead  of  looking  for  the  evils  of  the 
business  world,  she  was  desirous  of  seeing  in  it  all  the  bless 
ings  she  could;  and,  without  ever  losing  her  belief  that 
it  could  be  made  more  friendly,  she  was,  nevertheless, 
able  to  rise  above  her  own  personal  weariness  and  see 
that  the  world  of  jobs,  offices,  business,  had  made  itself 
creditably  superior  to  those  other  muddled  worlds  of 
politics  and  amusement  and  amorous  Schwirtzes.  She 
believed  again,  as  in  commercial  college  she  had'callowly 
believed,  that  business  was  beginning  to  see  itself  as  com 
munal,  world-ruling,  and  beginning  to  be  inspired  to 
communal,  kingly  virtues  and  responsibility. 

Looking  for  the  good  (sometimes,  in  her  joy  of  escape, 
looking  for  it  almost  with  the  joy  of  an  S.  Herbert  Ross  in 
picking  little  lucrative  flowers  of  sentiment  along  the  road 
side)  she  was  able  to  behold  more  daily  happiness  about  her. 

Fortunately,  Traux  &  Fein's  was  a  good  office,  not  too 
hard,  not  too  strained  and  factional  like  Pemberton's; 
not  wavering  like  Troy  Wilkins's.  Despite  Mr.  Truax's 
tendency  to  courteous  whining,  it  was  doing  its  work 
squarely  and  quietly.  That  was  fortunate.  Offices  differ 
as  much  as  office-managers,  and  had  chance  condemned 
Una  to  another  nerve-twanging  Pemberton's  her  slight 
strength  might  have  broken.  She  might  have  fallen 
back  to  Schwirtz  and  the  gutter. 

Peaceful  as  reapers  singing  on  their  homeward  path 
now  seemed  the  teasing  voices  of  men  and  girls  as,  in  a 
group,  they  waited  for  the  elevator  at  five-thirty-five. 
The  cheerful,  "Good-night,  Mrs.  Schwirtz!"  was  a  vesper 

[280] 


THE    JOB 

benediction,  altogether  sweet  with  its  earnest  of  rest  and 
friendship. 

'     Tranquillity  she  found  when  she  stayed  late  in  the  de- 

f  serted  office.  Here  no  Schwirtz  could  reach  her.  Here 
her  toil  counted  for  something  in  the  world's  work — in 
the  making  of  suburban  homes  for  men  and  women  and 
children.  She  sighed,  and  her  breast  felt  barren,  as  she 
thought  of  the  children.  But  tranquillity  there  was,  and 
a  brilliant  beauty  of  the  city  as  across  dark  spaces  of 
evening  were  strung  the  jewels  of  light,  as  in  small,  French 
restaurants  sounded  desirous  violins.  On  warm  evenings 
of  autumn  Una  would  lean  out  of  the  window  and  be 
absorbed  in  the  afterglow  above  the  North  River:  smoke- 
clouds  from  Jersey  factories  drifting  across  the  long, 
carmine  stain,  air  sweet  and  cool,  and  the  yellow-lighted 
windows  of  other  skyscrapers  giving  distant  companion 
ship.  She  fancied  sometimes  that  she  was  watching  the 
afterglow  over  a  far  northern  lake,  among  the  pines;  and 

,  with  a  sigh  more  of  content  than  of  restlessness  she 
turned  back  to  her  work.  .  .  .  Time  ceased  to  exist  when 
she  worked  alone.  Of  time  and  of  the  office  she  was 
manager.  What  if  she  didn't  go  out  to  dinner  till  eight? 
She  could  dine  whenever  she  wanted  to.  If  a  clumsy  man 
called  Eddie  Schwirtz  got  hungry  he  could  get  his  own 
dinner.  What  if  she  did  work  slowly?  There  were  no 
telephone  messages,  no  Mr.  Truax  to  annoy  her.  She 
could  be  leisurely  and  do  the  work  as  it  should  be  done. 
.  .  .  She  was  no  longer  afraid  of  the  rustling  silence  about 
her,  as  Una  Golden  had  been  at  Troy  Wilkins's.  She  was 

\  a  woman  now,  and  trained  to  fill  the  blank  spaces  of  the 
•  deserted  office  with  her  own  colored  thoughts. 

Hours  of  bustling  life  in  the  daytime  office  had  their 
human  joys  as  well.    Una  went  out  of  her  way  to  be  friend 
ly  with  the  ordinary  stenographers,  and,  as  there  was  no 
19  [281] 


THE    JOB 

vast  Pembertonian  system  of  caste,  she  succeeded,  and 
had  all  the  warmth  of  their  little  confidences.  Nor  after 
her  extensive  experience  with  Messrs.  Schwirtz,  Sander 
son,  and  McCullough,  did  even  the  noisiest  of  the  salesmen 
offend  her.  She  laughed  at  the  small  signs  they  were 
always  bringing  in  and  displaying:  "Oh,  forget  it!  I've 
got  troubles  of  my  own!"  or,  "Is  that  you  again?  An 
other  half  hour  gone  to  hell!"  The  sales-manager  brought 
this  latter  back  from  Philadelphia  and  hung  it  on  his  desk, 
and  when  the  admiring  citizenry  surrounded  it,  Una 
joined  them.  .  .  .  As  a  married  woman  she  was  not  ex 
pected  to  be  shocked  by  the  word,  "hell!"  .  .  . 

But  most  beautiful  was  Christmas  Eve,  when  all  dis 
tinctions  were  suspended  for  an  hour  before  the  office 
closed,  when  Mr.  Truax  distributed  gold  pieces  and 
handshakes,  when  "Chas.,"  the  hat-tilted  sales-manager, 
stood  on  a  chair  and  sang  a  solo.  Mr.  Fein  hung  holly 
on  all  their  desks,  and  for  an  hour  stenographers  and 
salesmen  and  clerks  and  chiefs  all  were  friends. 

When  she  went  home  to  Schwirtz  she  tried  to  take  some 
of  the  holiday  friendship.  She  sought  to  forget  that  he 
was  still  looking  for  the  hypothetical  job,  while  he  sub 
sisted  on  her  wages  and  was  increasingly  apologetic. 
She  boasted  to  herself  that  her  husband  hated  to  ask  her 
for  money,  that  he  was  large  and  strong  and  masculine. 

She  took  him  to  dinner  at  the  Pequoit,  in  a  room  of 
gold  and  tapestry.  But  he  got  drunk,  and  wept  into  his 
sherbet  that  he  was  a  drag  on  her;  and  she  was  glad  to 
be  back  in  the  office  after  Christmas. 


§2 

The  mist  of  newness  had  passed,  that  confusion  of  the 
recent  arrival  in  office  or  summer  hotel  or  revengeful  re- 

[282] 


THE    JOB 

ception;  and  she  now  saw  the  office  inhabitants  as  sepa 
rate  people.  She  wondered  how  she  could  ever  have  thought 
that  the  sales-manager  and  Mr.  Fein  were  confusingly 
alike,  or  have  been  unable  to  get  the  salesmen's  names 
right. 

There  was  the  chief,  Mr.  Daniel  T.  Truax,  usually 
known  as  "D.  T.,"  a  fussily  courteous  whiner  with  a 
rabbity  face  (his  pink  nose  actually  quivered),  a  little 
yellow  mustache,  and  a  little  round  stomach.  Himself 
and  his  business  he  took  very  seriously,  though  he  was 
far  less  tricky  than  Mr.  Pemberton.  The  Real  Estate 
Board  of  Trade  was  impressed  by  his  unsmiling  in 
sistence  on  the  Dignity  of  the  Profession,  and  always 
asked  him  to  serve  on  committees.  It  was  Mr.  Truax 
who  bought  the  property  for  sub-development,  and  though 
he  had  less  abstract  intelligence  than  Mr.  Fein,  he  was  a 
better  judge  of  "what  the  people  want";  of  just  how 
high  to  make  restrictions  on  property,  and  what  whim 
would  turn  the  commuters  north  or  south  in  their  quest 
for  homes. 

There  was  the  super-chief,  the  one  person  related  to  the 
firm  whom  Una  hated — Mrs.  D.  T.  Truax.  She  was  not 
officially  connected  with  the  establishment,  and  her  office 
habits  were  irregular.  Mostly  they  consisted  in  appear 
ing  at  the  most  inconvenient  hours  and  asking  maddening 
questions.  She  was  fat,  massaged,  glittering,  wheezy- 
voiced,  nagging.  Una  peculiarly  hated  Mrs.  Truax's  t 
nails.  Una's  own  finger- tips  were  hard  with  typing;  her 
manicuring  was  a  domestic  matter  of  clipping  and  hypo 
critical  filing.  But  to  Mrs.  Truax  manicuring  was  a  life-j 
work.  Because  of  much  clipping  of  the  cuticle,  the  flesh-  « 
at  the  base  of  each  nail  had  become  a  noticeably  raised 
cushion  of  pink  flesh.  Her  nails  were  too  pink,  too  shiny, 
too  shapely,  and  sometimes  they  were  an  unearthly  white 

[283] 


THE    JOB 

at  the  ends,  because  of  nail-paste  left  under  them.  At 
that  startling  whiteness  Una  stared  all  the  while  Mrs. 
Truax  was  tapping  her  fingers  and  prying  into  the  private 
morals  of  the  pretty  hall-girl,  and  enfilading  Una  with  the 
lorgnon  that  so  perfectly  suited  her  Upper  West  Side  jowls. 

Collating  Mrs.  Truax  and  the  matrons  of  the  Visiting 
Board  of  the  Temperance  Home  Club,  Una  concluded 
that  women  trained  in  egotism,  but  untrained  in  business, 
ought  to  be  legally  enjoined  from  giving  their  views  to 
young  women  on  the  job. 

The  most  interesting  figure  in  the  office  was  Mr.  Fein, 
the  junior  partner,  a  Harvard  Jew,  who  was  perfectly 
the  new  type  of  business  man.  Serious,  tall,  spectacled, 
clean-shaven,  lean-faced,  taking  business  as  a  profession, 
and  kindly  justice  as  a  religion,  studying  efficiency,  but 
hating  the  metamorphosis  of  clerks  into  machines,  he  was 
the  distinction  and  the  power  of  Truax  &  Fein.  At  first 
Una  had  thought  him  humorless  and  negligible,  but  she 
discovered  that  it  was  he  who  pulled  Mr.  Truax  out  of 
his  ruts,  his  pious  trickeries,  his  cramping  economies. 
She  found  that  Mr.  Fein  loved  books  and  the  opera,  and 
that  he  could  be  boyish  after  hours. 

Then^the  sales-manager,  that  driving  but  festive  soul, 
^Ir.  Charles  Salmond,  whom  everybody  called  "Chas." 
— pronounced  "Chaaz" — a  good  soul  who  was  a  little 
tiresome  because  he  was  so  consistently  an  anthology  of 
New  York.  He  believed  in  Broadway,  the  Follies,  good 
clothes,  »  motor-car,  Palm  Beach,  and  the  value  of  the 
Salvation  Army  among  the  lower  classes.  When  Mr. 
Fein  fought  for  real  beauty  in  their  suburban  develop 
ments  it  was  Chas.  who  echoed  all  of  New  York  by  re 
belling,  "We  aren't  in  business  for  our  health— this 
idealistic  game  is  O.  K.  for  the  guys  that  have  the  cash, 
but  you  can't  expect  my  salesmen  to  sell  this  Simplicity 

[284] 


THE    JOB 

and  High-Thinking  stuff  to  prospects  that  are  interested 
in  nothing  but  a  sound  investment  with  room  for  a  garage 
and  two  kids." 

Sixty  or  seventy  salesmen,  clerks,  girls — these  Una  was 
beginning  to  know. 

Finally,  there  was  a  keen,  wide-awake  woman,  willing 
to  do  anything  for  anybody,  not  forward,  but  not  to  be 
overridden — a  woman  with  a  slight  knowledge  of  archi 
tecture  and  a  larger  knowledge  of  the  way  of  promotion; 
a  woman  whom  Una  took  seriously;  and  the  name  »f  this 
paragon  was  Mrs.  Una  Golden  Schwirtz 

Round  these  human  islands  flowed  a  sea  of  oth'e 
She  had  a  sense  of  flux,  and  change,  and  energy;  of  hun 
dreds  of  thousands  of  people  rushing  about  her  always 
— crowds  on  Broadway  and  Fifth  Avenue  and  Sixth, 
and  on  Thirty-fourth  Street,  where  stood  the  Zodiac 
Building  in  which  was  the  office.  Crowds  in  the  hall  of 
the  Zodiac  Building,  examining  the  black-and-white 
directory  board  with  its  list  of  two  hundred  offices,  or 
waiting  to  surge  into  one  of  the  twelve  elevajtors — those 
packed  vertical  railroads.  A  whole  village  iife  in  the 
hallway  of  the  Zodiac  Building:  the*  imperial  elevator- 
starter  in  a  uniform  of  blue  and  gold,  and  merely  regal 
elevator-runners  with  less  gold  and  more  faded  blhe; 
the  oldest  of  the  elevator-boys,  Harry,  the  Greek,  who 
knew  everybody  in  the  building;  the  cigar-stand,  with 
piles  of  cigarettes,  cans  of  advertised  tobacco,  maple 
fudge  wrapped  in  tinfoil,  stamps,  and  even  a  few  cigars, 
also  the  keeper  thereof,  an  Italian  with  an  air  of  swounding 
romance.  More  romantic  Italians  in  the  glass-inclosed 
barber-shop — Desperate  Desmond  devils,  with  white  coats 
like  undress  uniforms,  and  mustaches  that  recalled  the 
Riviera  and  baccarat  and  a  secret-service  count*, «  the 
two  manicure-girls  of  the  barber-shop,  princesses  reigning 

[285] 


THE    JOB 

among  admirers  from  the  offices  up-stairs;  janitors,  with 
brooms,  and  charwomen  with  pails,  and  a  red,  sarcastic 
man,  the  engineer,  and  a  meek  puppet  who  was  merely 
the  superintendent  of  the  whole  thing.  .  .  .  Una  watched 
these  village  people,  to  whom  the  Zodiac  hall  was  Main 
Street,  and  in  their  satisfied  conformation  to  a  life  of 
marble  floors  and  artificial  light  she  found  such  settled 
existence  as  made  her  feel  at  home  in  this  town,  with  its 
eighteen  strata  called  floors.  She,  too,  at  least  during  the 
best  hours  of  the  day,  lived  in  the  Zodiac  Building's 
microcosm. 

And  to  her  office  penetrated  the  ever  flowing  crowds — 
salesmen,  buyers  of  real  estate,  inquirers,  persons  who 
seemed  to  have  as  a  hobby  the  collection  of  real-estate 
folders.  Indeed,  her  most  important  task  was  the  strategy 
of  "handling  callers" — the  callers  who  came  to  see  Mr. 
Truax  himself,  and  were  passed  on  to  Una  by  the  hall-girl. 
To  the  clever  secretary  the  management  of  callers  be 
comes  a  question  of  scientific  tactics,  and  Una  was  clever 
at  it  because  she  liked  people. 

She  had  to  recognize  the  type  of  awkward  shabby 
visitor  who  looks  like  a  beggar,  but  has  in  his  pocket  the 
cash  for  investment  in  lots.  And  the  insinuating  caller, 
with  tailor-made  garments  and  a  smart  tie,  who  presents 
himself  as  one  who  yearns  to  do  a  good  turn -to  his  dear, 
dear  personal  friend,  Mr.  D.  T.  Truax,  but  proves  to  be 
an  insurance-agent  or  a  salesman  of  adding-machines. 
She  had  to  send  away  the  women  with  high-pitched  voices 
and  purely  imaginary  business,  who  came  in  for  nothing 
whatever,  and  were  willing  to  spend  all  of  their  own  time 
and  Mr.  Truax's  in  obtaining  the  same;  women  with 
unsalable  houses  to  sell  or  improbable  lots  to  buy,  dis 
satisfied  clients,  or  mere  cranks — old,  shattered,  unhappy 
women,  to  whom  Una  could  give  sympathy,  but  no  time. 

[286] 


THE    JOB 

.  .  .  She  was  expert  at  standing  filially  listening  to  them 
at  the  elevator,  while  all  the  time  her  thumb  steadily 
pressed  the  elevator  signal. 

Una  had  been  trained,  perhaps  as  much  by  enduring 
Mr.  Schwirtz  as  by  pleasing  Mr.  S.  Herbert  Ross,  to  be 
firm,  to  say  no,  to  keep  Mr.  Truax's  sacred  rites  undis 
turbed.  She  did  not  conventionally  murmur,  "  Mr.  Truax 
is  in  a  conference  just  now,  and  if  you  will  tell  me  the 
nature  of  your  business — "  Instead,  she  had  surprising 
delightful,  convincing  things  for  Mr.  Truax  to  be 
just  at  that  particular  moment —  *^* — -v>v\~^. , 

From  Mr.  Truax  himself  shMeamed  new  ways  of  deli 
cately  getting  rid  of  people.  He  did  not  merely  rise  to 
indicate  that  an  interview  was  over,  but  also  arranged  a 
system  of  counterfeit  telephone-calls,  with  Una  calling  up 
from  the  outside  office,  and  Mr.  Truax  answering,  "Yes, 
I'll  be  through  now  in  just  a  moment,"  as  a  hint  for  the 
visitor.  He  even  practised  such  play-acting  as  putting  on 
his  hat  and  coat  and  rushing  out  to  greet  an  important 
but  unwelcome  caller  with,  "Oh,  I'm  so  sorry  I'm  just 
going  out — late  f  important  engagement — given  m'  sec 
retary  full  instructions,  and  I  know  she'll  take  care  of  you 
jus'  as  well  as  I  could  personally,"  and  returning  to  his 
private  office  by  a  rear  door. 

Mr.  Truax,  like  Mr.  S.  Herbert  Ross,  gave  Una  maxims. 
But  his  had  very  little  to  do  with  stars  and  argosies,  and  the 
road  to  success,  and  vivisection,  and  the  abstract  virtues. 
They  concerned  getting  to  the  office  on  time,  and  never 
letting  a  customer  bother  him  if  an  office  salesman  could 
take  care  of  the  matter. 

So  round  Una  flowed  all  the  energy  of  life;  and  she  of 
the  listening  and  desolate  hotel  room  and  the  overshadow 
ing  storm-clouds  was  happy  again. 

She  began  to  make  friendships.     "Chas.,"  the  ofnce- 

[287] 


THE   JOB 

manager,  stopped  often  at  her  desk  to  ridicule — and  Mr. 
Fein  to  praise — the  plans  she  liked  to  make  for  garden- 
suburbs  which  should  be  filled  with  poets,  thatched  roofs, 
excellent  plumbing,  artistic  conversation,  fireplaces,  in 
cinerators,  books,  and  convenient  trains. 

"Some  day,"  said  Mr.  Fein  to  her,  "we'll  do  that  sort 
of  thing,  just  as  the  Sage  Foundation  is  doing  it  at  Forest 
Hills."  And  he  smiled  encouragingly. 

"Some  day,"  said  Mr.  Truax,  "when  you're  head  of  a 
women's  real-estate  firm,  after  you  women  get  the  vote, 
and  rusty,  old-fashioned  people  like  me  are  out  of  the  way, 
perhaps  you  can  do  that  sort  of  thing."  And  he  smiled 
encouragingly. 

"Rot,"  said  Chas.,  and  amiably  chucked  her  under  the 
chin. 


CHAPTER  XX 

TRUAX  &  FEIN  was  the  first  firm  toward  which  Una 
was  able  to  feel  such  loyalty  as  is  supposed  to  dis 
tinguish  all  young  aspirants — loyalty  which  is  so  well 
spoken  of  by  bosses,  and  which  is  so  generally  lacking 
among  the  bossed.  Partly,  this  was  her  virtue,  partly 
it  was  the  firm's,  and  partly  it  was  merely  the  accident  of  * 
her  settling  down. 

She  watched  the  biological  growth  of  Truax  &  Fein 
with  fascination;  was  excited  when  they  opened  a  new 
subdivision,  and  proudly  read  the  half-page  advertise 
ments  thereof  in  the  Sunday  newspapers. 

That  loyalty  made  her  study  real  estate,  not  merely 
stenography;  for  to  most  stenographers  their  work  is  the 
same  whether  they  take  dictation  regarding  real  estate,  or 
book-publishing,  or  felt  slippers,  or  the  removal  of  tacon- 
ite.  They  understand  transcription,  but  not  what  they 
transcribe.  She  read  magazines — System,  Printer's  Ink, 
Real  Estate  Record  (solemnly  studying  "Recorded  Con 
veyances,"  and  "Plans  Filed  for  New  Construction  Work," 
and  "Mechanics'  Liens").  She  got  ideas  for  houses  from 
architectural  magazines,  garden  magazines,  women's 
magazines.  But  what  most  indicated  that  she  was  a 
real  devotee  was  the  fact  that,  after  glancing  at  the 
front-page  headlines,  the  society  news,  and  the  joke  col 
umn  in  her  morning  paper,  she  would  resolutely  turn  to 
"The  Real  Estate  Field." 

[289\ 


THE    JOB 

On  Sundays  she  often  led  Mr.  Schwirtz  for  a  walk 
among  the  new  suburban  developments.  .  .  .  For  always, 
no  matter  what  she  did  at  the  office,  no  matter  how  much 
Mr.  Truax  depended  on  her  or  Mr.  Fein  praised  her,  she 
went  home  to  the  same  cabbage-rose-carpeted  house 
keeping-room,  and  to  a  Mr.  Schwirtz  who  had  seemingly 
not  stirred  an  inch  since  she  had  left  him  in  the  morning. 
.  .  .  Mr.  Schwirtz  was  of  a  harem  type,  and  not  much 
adapted  to  rustic  jaunting,  but  he  obediently  followed 
his  master  and  tried  to  tell  stories  of  the  days  when  he 
had  known  all  about  real  estate,  while  she  studied  model 
houses,  the  lay  of  the  land,  the  lines  of  sewers  and  walks. 

That  was  loyalty  to  Truax  &  Fein  as  much  as  desire 
for  advancement. 

And  that  same  loyalty  made  her  accept  as  fellow- 
workers  even  the  noisiest  of  the  salesmen — and  even 
Beatrice  Joline. 

Though  Mr.  Truax  didn't  "believe  in"  women  salesmen, 
one  woman  briskly  overrode  his  beliefs:  Miss  Beatrice 
Joline,  of  the  Gramercy  Park  Jolines,  who  cheerfully 
called  herself  "one  of  the  nouveau  pauvre,"  and  conde 
scended  to  mere  Upper  West  Side  millionaires,  and  had  to 
earn  her  frocks  and  tea  money.  She  earned  them,  too; 
but  she  declined  to  be  interested  in  office  regulations  or 
office  hours.  She  sold  suburban  homes  as  a  free  lance, 
and  only  to  the  very  best  people.  She  darted  into  the 
office  now  and  then,  slender,  tall,  shoulder-swinging,  an 
exclamation-point  of  a  girl,  in  a  smart,  check  suit  and  a 
Bendel  hat.  She  ignored  Una  with  a  coolness  which  re 
duced  her  to  the  status  of  a  new  stenographer.  All  the 
office  watched  Miss  Joline  with  hypnotized  envy.  Always 
in  offices  those  who  have  social  position  outside  are  ob 
served  with  secret  awe  by  those  who  have  not. 

Once,  when  Mr.  Truax  was  in  the  act  of  persuading  an 

[290] 


THE   JOB 

unfortunate  property-owner  to  part  with  a  Long  Island 
estate  for  approximately  enough  to  buy  one  lot  after  the 
estate  should  be  subdivided  into  six  hundred  lots,  Miss 
Joline  had  to  wait.  She  perched  on  Una's  desk,  outside 
Mr.  Truax's  door,  swung  her  heels,  inspected  the  finger- 
ends  of  her  chamois  gloves,  and  issued  a  command  to 
Una  to  perform  conversationally. 

Una  was  thinking,  "I'd  like  to  spank  you — and  then 
I'd  adore  you.  You're  what  story-writers  call  a  thorough 
bred." 

While  unconscious  that  a  secretary  in  a  tabby  -  gray 
dress  and  gold  eye-glasses  was  venturing  to  appraise  her, 
Miss  Joline  remarked,  in  a  high,  clear  voice:  "Beastly 
bore  to  have  to  wait,  isn't  it!  I  suppose  you  can  rush 
right  in  to  see  Mr.  Truax  any  time  you  want  to,  Mrs. 
Ummmmm." 

"Schwirtz.  Rotten  name,  isn't  it?"  Una  smiled  up 
condescendingly. 

Miss  Joline  stopped  kicking  her  heels  and  stared  at 
Una  as  though  she  might  prove  to  be  human,  after  all. 

"Oh  no,  it's  a  very  nice  name,"  she  said.  "Fancy  being 
called  Joline.  Now  Schwirtz  sounds  rather  like  Schenck, 
and  that's  one  of  the  smartest  of  the  old  names.  .  .  .  Uh, 
would  it  be  too  much  trouble  to  see  if  Mr.  Truax  is  still 
engaged?" 

"He  is.  ...  Miss  Joline,  I  feel  like  doing  something  I've 
wanted  to  do  for  some  time.  Of  course  we  both  know 
you  think  of  me  as  '  that  poor  little  dub,  Mrs.  What's-her- 
name,  D.  T.'s  secretary — " 

"Why,  really—" 

" — or  perhaps  you  hadn't  thought  of  me  at  all.  I'm 
naturally  quite  a  silent  little  dub,  but  I've  been  learning 
that  it's  silly  to  be  silent  in  business.  So  I've  been  plan 
ning  to  get  hold  of  you  and  ask  you  where  and  how  you 

[291] 


THE    JOB 

get  those  suits  of  yours,  and  what  I  ought  to  wear.  You 
see,  after  you  marry  I'll  still  be  earning  my  living,  and 
perhaps  if  I  could  dress  anything  like  you  I  could  fool 
some  business  man  into  thinking  I  was  clever." 

"As  I  do,  you  mean,"  said  Miss  Joline,  cheerfully. 

"Well—" 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind.  But,  my  dear,  good  woman — oh, 
I  suppose  I  oughtn't  to  call  you  that." 

"  I  don't  care  what  you  call  me,  if  you  can  tell  me  how  to 
make  a  seventeen-fifty  suit  look  like  Vogue.  Isn't  it 
awful,  Miss  Joline,  that  us  lower  classes  are  interested  in 
clothes,  too?" 

"My  dear  girl,  even  the  beautiful,  the  accomplished 
Beatrice  Joline — I'll  admit  it — knows  when  she  is  being 
teased.  I  went  to  boarding-school,  and  if  you  think  I 
haven't  ever  been  properly  and  thoroughly,  and  oh,  most 
painstakingly  told  what  a  disgusting,  natural  snob  I  am, 
you  ought  to  have  heard  Tomlinson,  or  any  other  of  my 
dear  friends,  taking  me  down.  I  rather  fancy  you're 
kinder-hearted  than  they  are;  but,  anyway,  you  don't 
insult  me  half  so  scientifically." 

"I'm  so  sorry.  I  tried  hard —  Fm  a  well-meaning  in- 
sulter,  but  I  haven't  the  practice." 

"My  dear,  I  adore  you.  Isn't  it  lovely  to  be  frank? 
When  us  females  get  into  Mr.  Truax's  place  we'll  have  the 
most  wonderful  time  insulting  each  other,  don't  you 
think?  But,  really,  please  don't  think  I  like  to  be  rude. 
But  you  see  we  Jolines  are  so  poor  that  if  I  stopped  it 
all  my  business  acquaintances  would  think  I  was  admitting 
how  poor  we  are,  so  I'm  practically  forced  to  be  horrid. 
Now  that  we've  been  amiable  to  each  other,  what  can 
I  do  for  you?  .  .  .  Does  that  sound  business-like  enough?" 

"I  want  to  make  you  give  me  some  hints  about  clothes. 
I  used  to  like  terribly  crude  colors,  but  I've  settled  down 

,[292] 


THE    JOB 

to  tessie  things  that  are  safe — this  gray  dress,  and  brown, 
and  black." 

"  Well,  my  dear,  I'm  the  best  little  dressmaker  you  ever 
saw,  and  I  do  love  to  lay  down  the  law  about  clothes. 
With  your  hair  and  complexion,  you  ought  to  wear  clear 
blues.  Order  a  well-made — be  sure  it's  well-made,  no 
matter  what  it  costs.  Get  some  clever  little  Jew  socialist 
tailor  off  in  the  outskirts  of  Brooklyn,  or  some  heathenish 
place,  and  stand  over  him.  A  well-made  tailored  suit  of 
not  too  dark  navy  blue,  with  matching  blue  crepe  de  Chine 
blouses  with  nice,  soft,  white  collars,  and  cuffs  of  crepe  or 
chiffon — and  change  'em  often." 

"What  about  a  party  dress?  Ought  I  to  have  satin,  or 
chiffon,  or  blue  net,  or  what?" 

"Well,  satin  is  too  dignified,  and  chiffon  too  perishable, 
and  blue  net  is  too  tessie.  Why  don't  you  try  black  net 
over  black  satin?  You  know  there's  really  lots  of  color 
in  black  satin  if  you  know  how  to  use  it.  Get  good  ma 
terials,  and  then  you  can  use  them  over  and  over  again — 
perhaps  white  chiffon  over  the  black  satin." 

"White  over  black?" 

Though  Miss  Joline  stared  down  with  one  of  the  quick, 
secretive  smiles  which  Una  hated,  the  smile  which  re 
duced  her  to  the  rank  of  a  novice,  her  eyes  held  Miss 
Joline,  made  her  continue  her  oracles. 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Joline,  "and  it  isn't  very  expensive. 
Try  it  with  the  black  net  first,  and  have  soft  little  folds 
of  white  tulle  along  the  edge  of  the  decolletage — it's 
scarcely  noticeable,  but  it  does  soften  the  neck-line.  And 
wear  a  string  of  pearls.  Get  these  Artifico  pearls,  a  dollar- 
ninety  a  string.  .  .  .  Now  you  see  how  useful  a  snob  is  to 
the  world!  I'd  never  give  you  all  this  god-like  advice  if 
I  didn't  want  to  advertise  what  an  authority  I  am  on 
'Smart  Fashions  for  Limited  Incomes.'" 

[293] 


THE   JOB 

I 

"You're  a  darling,"  said  Una. 

"Come  to  tea,"  said  Miss  Joline.       / 

They  did  go  to  tea.  But  before  it,  while  Miss  Joline 
was  being  voluble  with  Mr.  Truax,  Una  methodically 
made  notes  on  the  art  of  dress  and  filed  them  for  future 
reference.  Despite  the  fact  that,  with  the  support  of 
Mr.  Schwirtz  as  her  chief  luxury,  she  had  only  sixteen 
dollars  in  the  world,  she  had  faith  that  she  would  some 
time  take  a  woman's  delight  in  dress,  and  a  business 
woman's  interest  in  it.  ...  This  had  been  an  important 
hour  for  her,  though  it  cannot  be  authoritatively  stated 
which  was  the  more  important — learning  to  dress,  or 
learning  not  to  be  in  awe  of  a  Joline  of  Gramercy  Park. 

They  went  to  tea  several  times  in  the  five  months  before 
the  sudden  announcement  of  Miss  Joline's  engagement  to 
Wally  Castle,  of  the  Tennis  and  Racquet  Club.  And  at 
tea  they  bantered  and  were  not  markedly  different 
in  their  use  of  forks  or  choice  of  pastry.  But  never  were 
they  really  friends.  Una,  of  Panama,  daughter  of  Captain 
Golden,  and  wife  of  Eddie  Schwirtz,  could  compre 
hend  Walter  Babson  and  follow  Mamie  Magen,  and  even 
rather  despised  that  Diogenes  of  an  enameled  tub,  Mr.  S. 
Herbert  Ross;  but  it  seemed  probable  that  she  would  never 
^  be  able  to  do  more  than  ask  for  bread  and  railway  tickets 
in  the  language  of  Beatrice  Joline,  whose  dead  father  had 
been  ambassador  to  Portugal  and  friend  to  Henry  James 
and  John  Hay. 


It  hurt  a  little,  but  Una  had  to  accept  the  fact  that 
Beatrice  Joline  was  no  more  likely  to  invite  her  to  the 
famous  and  shabby  old  house  of  the  Jolines  than  was 
Mrs.  Truax  to  ask  her  advice  about  manicuring.  They 
did,  however,  have  dinner  together  on  an  evening  when 

[294] 


THE    JOB 

Miss  Joline  actually  seemed  to  be  working  late  at  the 
office. 

"Let's  go  to  a  Cafe  des  Enfants,"  said  Miss  Joline. 
"Such  a  party!  And,  honestly,  I  do  like  their  coffee  and 
the  nice,  shiny,  bathroom  walls." 

"Yes,"  said  Una,  "it's  almost  as  much  of  a  party  to 
me  as  running  a  typewriter.  .  .  .  Let's  go  Dutch  to  the 
Martha  Washington." 

"  Verra  well.  Though  I  did  want  buckwheats  and  little 
sausages.  Exciting!" 

"Hull!"  said  Una,  who  was  unable  to  see  any  adven 
turous  qualities  in  a  viand  which  she  consumed  about 
twice  a  week. 

Miss  Joline's  clean  litheness,  her  gaiety  that  had  never 
been  made  timorous  or  grateful  by  defeat  or  sordidness, 
her  whirlwind  of  nonsense,  blended  in  a  cocktail  for  Una 
at  dinner.  Schwirtz,  money  difficulties,  weariness,  did 
not  exist.  Her  only  trouble  in  the  entire  universe  was  the 
reconciliation  of  her  admiration  for  Miss  Joline's  amiable 
superiority  to  everybody,  her  gibes  at  the  salesmen,  and 
even  at  Mr.  Truax,  with  Mamie  Magen's  philanthropic 
socialism.  (So  far  as  this  history  can  trace,  she  never  did 
reconcile  them.) 

She  left  Miss  Joline  with  a  laugh,  and  started  home  with 
a  song — then  stopped.  She  foresaw  the  musty  room  to 
which  she  was  going,  the  slatternly  incubus  of  a  man. 
Saw — with  just  such  distinctness  as  had  once  dangled 
the  stiff,  gray  scrub-rag  before  her  eyes — Schwirtz's  every 
detail:  bushy  chin,  stained  and  collarless  shirt,  trousers 
like  old  chair-covers.  Probably  he  would  always  be  like 
this.  Probably  he  would  never  have  another  job.  But 
she  couldn't  cast  him  out.  She  had  married  him,  in  his 
own  words,  as  a  "good  provider."  She  had  lost  the 

bet;  she  would  be  a  good  loser — and  a  good  provider  for 

[295] 


THE    JOB 

him. . . .  Always,  perhaps. . . .  Always  that  mass  of  spoiled 
babyhood  waiting  at  home  for  her.  .  .  .  Always  apologetic 
and  humble — she  would  rather  have  the  old,  grumbling, 
dominant  male.  .  .  . 

She  tried  to  push  back  the  moment  of  seeing  him  again. 
Her  steps  dragged,  but  at  last,  inevitably,  grimly,  the 
house  came  toward  her.  She  crept  along  the  moldy  hall, 
opened  the  door  of  their  room,  saw  him — 

She  thought  it  was  a  stranger,  an  intruder.  But  it  was 
veritably  her  husband,  in  a  new  suit  that  was  fiercely 
pressed  and  shaped,  in  new,  gleaming,  ox-blood  shoes, 
with  a  hair-cut  and  a  barber  shave.  He  was  bending 
over  the  bed,  which  was  piled  with  new  shirts,  Afro- 
American  ties,  new  toilet  articles,  and  he  was  packing  a 
new  suit-case. 

He  turned  slowly,  enjoying  her  amazement.  He  fin 
ished  packing  a  shirt.  She  said  nothing,  standing  at  the 
door.  Teetering  on  his  toes  and  watching  the  effect  of  it 
all  on  her,  he  lighted  a  large  cigar. 

"Some  class,  eh?"  he  said. 

"Well—" 

"Nifty  suit,  eh?    And  how  are  those  for  swell  ties?" 

"Very  nice. . . .  From  whom  did  you  borrow  the  money?" 

"Now  that  cer'nly  is  a  nice,  sweet  way  to  congratulate 
friend  hubby.  Oh,  sure!  Man  lands  a  job,  works  his  head 
off  getting  it,  gets  an  advance  for  some  new  clothes  he's 
simply  got  to  have,  and  of  course  everybody  else  con 
gratulates  him — everybody  but  his  own  w^ife.  She  sniffs 
at  him — not  a  word  about  the  new  job,  of  course.  First 
crack  outa  the  box,  she  gets  busy  suspecting  him,  and 
says,  'Who  you  been  borrowing  of  now?'  And  this  after 
always  acting  as  though  she  was  an  abused  little  innocent 
that  nobody  appreciated — " 

He  was  in  mid-current,  swimming  strong,  and  waving 

[290] 


THE    JOB 

his  cigar  above  the  foaming  waters,  but  she  pulled  him 
out  of  it  with,  "I  am  sorry.  I  ought  to  have  known.  I'm 
a  beast.  I  am  glad,  awfully  glad  you've  got  a  new  job. 
What  is  it?" 

"New  company  handling  a  new  kind  of  motor  for  row- 
boats — converts  'em  to  motor-boats  in  a  jiffy — outboard 
motors  they  call  'em.  Got  a  swell  territory  and  plenty 
bonus  on  new  business." 

"Oh,  isn't  that  fine!  It's  such  a  fine  surprise — and 
it's  cute  of  you  to  keep  it  to  surprise  me  with  all  this 
while—" 

"Well,  's  a  matter  of  fact,  I  just  got  on  to  it  to-day. 
Ran  into  Burke  McCullough  on  Sixth  Avenue,  and  he 
gave  me  the  tip." 

"Oh!"  A  forlorn  little  "Oh!"  it  was.  She  had  pictured 
him  proudly  planning  to  surprise  her.  And  she  longed  to 
have  the  best  possible  impression  of  him,  because  of  a 
certain  plan  which  was  hotly  being  hammered  out  in  her 
brain.  She  went  on,  as  brightly  as  possible: 

"And  they  gave  you  an  advance?    That's  fine." 

"Well,  no,  they  didn't,  exactly,  but  Burke  introduced 
me  to  his  clothier,  and  I  got  a  swell  line  of  credit." 

"Oh!" 

"Now  for  the  love  of  Pete,  don't  go  oh-ing  and  ah-ing 
like  that.  You've  handed  me  the  pickled  visage  since  I 
got  the  rowdy-dowon  my  last  job — good  Lord!  you  acted 
like  you  thought  I  liked  to  sponge  on  you.  Now  let  me 
tell  you  I've  kept  account  of  every  red  cent  you've  spent 
on  me,  and  I  expect  to  pay  it  back." 

She  tried  to  resist  her  impulse,  but  she  couldn't  keep 
from  saying,  as  nastily  as  possible:  "How  nice.  When?" 

"Oh,  I'll  pay  it  back,  all  right,  trust  you  for  that!  You 
won't  fail  to  keep  wising  me  up  on  the  fact  that  you  think 
I'm  a  drunken  bum.  You'll  sit  around  all  day  in  a  hotel 

20  [297] 


THE    JOB 

and  take  it  easy  and  have  plenty  time  to  figger  out  all 
the  things  you  can  roast  me  for,  and  then  spring  them  on 
me  the  minute  I  get  back  from  a  trip  all  tired  out.  Like 
you  always  used  to." 

"Oh,  I  did  not!"  she  wailed. 

"Sure  you  did." 

"And  what  do  you  mean  by  my  sitting  around,  from 
now  on — " 

"  Well,  what  the  hell  else  are  you  going  to  do?  You  can't 
play  the  piano  or  maybe  run  an  aeroplane,  can  you?" 

"Why,  I'm  going  to  stay  on  my  job,  of  course,  Ed." 

"You  are  not  going- to-of-course-stay-on-your-job-Ed, 
any  such  a  thing.  Lemme  tell  you  that  right  here  and  now, 
my  lady.  I've  stood  just  about  all  I'm  going  to  stand  of 
your  top-lofty  independence  and  business  airs — as  though 
you  weren't  a  wife  at  all,  but  just  as  'be-damned-to-you* 
independent  as  though  you  were  as  much  of  a  business  man 
as  I  am!  No,  sir,  you'll  do  what  /  say  from  now  on. 
I've  been  tied  to  your  apron  strings  long  enough,  and  now 
I'm  the  boss — see?  Me!"  He  tapped  his  florid  bosom. 
"You  used  to  be  plenty  glad  to  go  to  poker  parties  and 
leg-shows  with  me,  when  I  wanted  to,  but  since  you've 
taken  to  earning  your  living  again  you've  become  so 
ip-de-dee  and  independent  that  when  I  even  suggest 
rushing  a  growler  of  beer  you  scowl  at  me,  and  as  good  as 
say  you're  too  damn  almighty  good  for  Eddie  Schwirtz's 
low-brow  amusements.  And  you've  taken  to  staying  out 
all  hours — course  it  didn't  matter  whether  I  stayed  here 
without  a  piece  of  change,  or  supper,  or  anything  else,  or 
any  amusements,  while  you  were  out  whoop-de-doodling 
around —  You  said  it  was  with  women!" 

She  closed  her  eyes  tight;  then,  wearily:  "You  mean, 
I  suppose,  that  you  think  I  was  out  with  men." 

"Well,  I  ain't  insinuating  anything  about  what  you 

[298] 


THE   JOB 

been  doing.  You  been  your  own  boss,  and  of  course  I  had 
to  take  anything  off  anybody  as  long  as  I  was  broke.  But 
lemme  tell  you,  from  now  on,  no  pasty-faced  female  is 
going  to  rub  it  in  any  more.  You're  going  to  try  some  of 
your  own  medicine.  You're  going  to  give  up  your  rotten 
stenographer's  job,  and  you're  going  to  stay  home  where 
I  put  you,  and  when  I  invite  you  to  come  on  a  spree  you're 
going  to  be  glad — " 

Her  face  tightened  with  rage.  She  leaped  at  him,  shook 
him  by  the  shoulder,  and  her  voice  came  in  a  shriek: 

"Now  that's  enough.  I'm  through.  You  did  mean  to 
insinuate  I  was  out  with  men.  I  wasn't — but  that  was 
just  accident.  I'd  have  been  glad  to,  if  there'd  been  one 
I  could  have  loved  even  a  little.  I'd  have  gone  anywhere 
with  him — done  anything!  And  now  we're  through.  I 
stood  you  as  long  as  it  was  my  job  to  do  it.  God!  what 
jobs  we  women  have  in  this  chivalrous  world  that  honors 
women  so  much! — but  now  that  you  can  take  care  of 
'  yourself,  I'll  do  the  same." 
""  What  d'yuh  mean?" 

"I  mean  this." 

She  darted  at  the  bed,  yanked  from  beneath  it  her  suit 
case,  and  into  it  began  to  throw  her  toilet  articles. 

Mr.  Schwirtz  sat  upon  the  bed  and  laughed  enormously. 

"  You  women  cer'nly  are  a  sketch !"  he  caroled.  "  Going 
back  to  mamma,  are  you?  Sure!  That's  what  the  first 
Mrs.  Schwirtz  was  always  doing.  Let's  see.  Once  she 
got  as  far  as  the  depot  before  she  came  back  and  admitted 
that  she  was  a  chump.  I  doubt  if  you  get  that  far.  You'll 
stop  on  the  step.  You're  too  tightwad  to  hire  a  taxi,  even 
to  try  to  scare  me  and  make  it  unpleasant  for  me." 

Una  stopped  packing,  stood  listening.  Now,  her  voice 
unmelodramatic  again,  she  replied: 

"You're  right  about  several  things.     I  probably  was 

[299] 


THE    JOB 

thoughtless  about  leaving  you  alone  evenings — though  it 
is  not  true  that  I  ever  left  you  without  provision  for  supper. 
And  of  course  you've  often  left  me  alone  back  there  in  the 
hotel  while  you  were  off  with  other  women — " 

"  Now  who's  insinuating?"  He  performed  another  char 
acteristic  peroration.  She  did  not  listen,  but  stood  with 
warning  hand  up,  a  small  but  plucky-looking  traffic  police 
man,  till  he  ceased,  then  went  on : 

"'But  I  can't  really  blame  you.  Even  in  this  day  when 
people  like  my  friend  Mamie  Magen  think  that  feminism 
has  won  everything,  I  suppose  there  must  still  be  a  ma 
jority  of  men  like  you — men  who've  never  even  heard  of 
feminism,  who  think  that  their  women  are  breed  cattle. 
I  judge  that  from  the  conversations  I  overhear  in  res 
taurants  and  street-cars,  and  these  pretty  vaudeville 
jokes  about  marriage  that  you  love  so,  and  from  movie 
pictures  of  wives  beating  husbands,  and  from  the  fact  that 
women  even  yet  haven't  the  vote.  I  suppose  that  you 
don't  really  know  many  men  besides  the  mucky  cattle- 
drover  sort,  and  I  can't  blame  you  for  thinking  like 
them—" 

"Say,  what  is  all  this  cattle  business  about?  I  don't 
seem  to  recall  we  were  discussing  stockyards.  Are  you 
trying  to  change  the  conversation,  so  you  won't  even  have 
to  pack  your  grip  before  you  call  your  own  bluff  about 
leaving  me?  Don't  get  it  at  all,  at  all!" 

"You  will  get  it,  my  friend!  ...  As  I  say,  I  can  see — 
now  it's  toojate — how  mean  I  must  have  been  to  you 
often.  I've  probably  hurt  your  feelings  lots  of  times — " 

"You  have,  all  right." 
—but  I  still  don't  see  how  I  could  have  avoided  it. 

don't  blame  myself,  either.  We  two  simply  never  could 
i  get  together — you're  two-thirds  the  old-fashioned  brute, 
/  and  I'm  at  least  one-third  the  new,  independent  woman. 

[300] 


THE    JOB 

We  wouldn't  understand  each  other,  not  if  we  talked  a 
thousand  years.  Heavens  alive!  just  see  all  these  silly 
discussions  of  suffrage  that  men  like  you  carry  on,  when 
the  whole  thing  is  really  so  simple:  simply  that  women 
are  intelligent  human  beings,  and  have  the  right — 

"Now  who  mentioned  suffrage?  If  you'll  kindly  let 
me  know  what  you're  trying  to  get  at,  then — 

"You  see?  We  two  never  could  understand  each  other! 
So  I'm  just  going  to  clean  house.  Get  rid  of  things  that 
clutter  it  up.  I'm  going,  to-night,  and  I  don't  think  I 
shall  ever  see  you  again,  so  do  try  to  be  pleasant  while 
I'm  packing.  This  last  time.  .  .  .  Oh,  I'm  free  again.  And 
so  are  you,  you  poor,  decent  man.  Let's  congratulate 
each  other." 

§3 

Despite  the  constant  hammering  of  Mr.  Schwirtz,  who 
changed  swiftly  from  a  tyrant  to  a  bewildered  orphan, 
Una  methodically  finished  her  packing,  went  to  a  hotel, 
and  within  a  week  found  in  Brooklyn,  near  the  Heights, 
a  pleasant  white-and-green  third-floor-front. 

Her  salary  had  been  increased  to  twenty-five  dollars  a 
week. 

She  bought  the  blue  suit  and  the  crepe  de  Chine  blouse 
recommended  by  Miss  Beatrice  Joline.  She  was  still 
sorry  for  Mr.  Schwirtz ;  she  thought  of  him  now  and  then, 
and  wondered  where  he  had  gone.  But  that  did  not  pre 
vent  her  enjoying  the  mirror's  reflection  of  the  new  blouse. 

§4 

While  he  was  dictating  to  Una,  Mr.  Truax  monologized : 
"I  don't  see  why  we  can't  sell  that  Boutell  family  a  lot. 
We  wouldn't  make  any  profit  out  of  it,  now,  anyway — 

[301] 


THE   JOB 

that's  nearly  eaten  up  by  the  overhead  we've  wasted  on 
them.  But  I  hate  to  give  them  up,  and  your  friend  Mr. 
Fein  says  that  we  aren't  scientific  salesmen  if  we  give 
up  the  office  problems  that  everybody  takes  a  whack  at 
and  seems  to  fail  on." 

More  and  more  Mr.  Truax  had  been  recognizing  Una 
as  an  intelligence,  and  often  he  teased  her  regarding  her 
admiration  for  Mr.  Fein's  efficiency.  Now  he  seemed  al 
most  to  be  looking  to  her  for  advice  as  he  plaintively 
rambled  on: 

"  Every  salesman  on  the  staff  has  tried  to  sell  this  asinine 
Boutell  family  and  failed.  We've  got  the  lots — give  'em 
anything  from  a  fifteen-thousand-dollar-restriction,  water 
front,  high-class  development  to  an  odd  lot  behind  an 
Italian  truck-farm.  They've  been  considering  a  lot  at 
Villa  Estates  for  a  month,  now,  and  they  aren't — " 

"Let  me  try  them." 

"Let  you  try  them?" 

"Try  to  seU  them." 

"Of  course,  if  you  want  to — in  your  own  time  outside. 
This  is  a  matter  that  the  selling  department  ought  to 
have  disposed  of.  But  if  you  want  to  try — ' 

"I  will.  I'll  try  them  on  a  Saturday  afternoon — next 
Saturday." 

"But  what  do  you  know  about  Villa  Estates?" 

"I  walked  all  over  it,  just  last  Sunday.  Talked  to  the 
resident  salesman  for  an  hour." 

"That's  good.  I  wish  all  our  salesmen  would  do  some 
thing  like  that." 

All  week  Una  planned  to  attack  the  redoubtable  Bou- 
tells.  She  telephoned  (sounding  as  well-bred  and  clever 
as  she  could)  and  made  an  appointment  for  Saturday  after 
noon.  The  Boutells  were  going  to  a  matinee,  Mrs. 
Boutell's  grating  voice  informed  her,  but  they  would  be 

[302] 


THE    JOB 

pleased  t'  see  Mrs.  Schwirtz  after  the  show.  All  week 
Una  asked  advice  of  "Chas.,"  the  sales-manager,  who, 
between  extensive  exhortations  to  keep  away  from  selling 
— "  because  it's  the  hardest  part  of  the  game,  and,  believe 
me,  it  gets  the  least  gratitude'* — gave  her  instructions 
in  the  tactics  of  "presenting  a  proposition  to  a  client/' 
"convincing  a  prospect  of  the  salesman's  expert  knowl 
edge  of  values,"  "clinching  the  deal,"  "talking  points," 
and  "desirability  of  location." 

Wednesday  evening  Una  went  out  to  Villa  Estates  to 
look  it  over  again,  and  she  conducted  a  long,  imaginary 
conversation  with  the  Boutells  regarding  the  nearness  of 
the  best  school  in  Nassau  County. 

But  on  Saturday  morning  she  felt  ill.  At  the  office  she 
wailed  on  the  shoulder  of  a  friendly  stenographer  that  she 
would  never  be  able  to  follow  up  this,  her  first  chance  to 
advance. 

She  went  home  at  noon  and  slept  till  four.  She  arrived 
at  the  Boutells'  flat  looking  like  a  dead  leaf.  She  tried  to 
skip  into  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Boutell — a  dragon  with  a 
frizz — and  was  heavily  informed  that  Mr.  Boutell  wouldn't 
be  back  till  six,  and  that,  anyway,  they  had  "talked  over 
the  Villa  Estates  proposition,  and  decided  it  wasn't  quite 
time  to  come  to  a  decision — be  better  to  wait  till  the 
weather  cleared  up,  so  a  body  can  move  about." 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Boutell,  I  just  can't  argue  it  out  with  you," 
Una  howled.  "I  do  know  Villa  Estates  and  its  desirability 
for  you,  but  this  is  my  very  first  experience  in  direct  sell 
ing,  and  as  luck  would  have  it,  I  feel  perfectly  terrible 
to-day." 

"You  poor  lamb!"  soothed  Mrs.  Boutell.  "You  do 
look  terrible  sick.  You  come  right  in  and  lie  down  and 
I'll  have  my  Lithuanian  make  you  a  cup  of  hot  beef-tea." 

While  Mrs.  Boutell  held  her  hand  and  fed  her  beef-tea, 

[303] 


THE   JOB 

Una  showed  photographs  of  Villa  Estates  and  became 
feebly  oratorical  in  its  praises,  and  when  Mr.  Boutell 
came  home  at  six-thirty  they  all  had  a  light  dinner  to 
gether,  and  went  to  the  moving-pictures,  and  through  them 
talked  about  real  estate,  and  at  eleven  Mr.  Boutell  un 
easily  took  the  fountain-pen  which  Una  resolutely  held 
out  to  him,  and  signed  a  contract  to  purchase  two  lots  at 
.Villa  Estates,  and  a  check  for  the  first  payment. 
.  Una  had  climbed  above  the  rank  of  assistant  to  the 

rank  of  people  who  do  things. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

TO  Una  and  to  Mr.  Fein  it  seemed  obvious  that,  since 
women  have  at  least  half  of  the  family  decision  re 
garding  the  purchase  of  suburban  homes,  women  salesmen 
of  suburban  property  should  be  at  least  as  successful  as 
men.  But  Mr.  Truax  had  a  number  of  "good,  sound, 
conservative  "  reasons  why  this  should  not  be  so,  and  there 
fore  declined  to  credit  the  evidence  of  Una,  Beatrice 
Joline,  and  saleswomen  of  other  firms  that  it  really 
was  so. 

Yet,  after  solving  the  Boutell  office  problem,  Una  was 
frequently  requisitioned  by  "Chas."  to  talk  to  women 
about  the  advantages  of  sites  for  themselves  and  their 
children,  while  regular  and  intelligent  (that  is,  male) 
salesmen  worked  their  hypnotic  arts  on  the  equally  regu 
lar  and  intelligent  men  of  the  families.  Where  formerly  it 
had  seemed  an  awesome  miracle,  like  chemistry  or  poetry, 
to  "close  a  deal"  and  bring  thousands  of  dollars  into  the 
office,  now  Una  found  it  quite  normal.  Responsibility 
gave  her  more  poise  and  willingness  to  take  initiative. 
Her  salary  was  raised  to  thirty  dollars  a  week.  She 
banked  two  hundred  dollars  of  commissions,  and  bought 
a  Japanese-blue  silk  negligee,  a  wrist- watch,  and  the  gown 
of  black  satin  and  net  recommended  by  Miss  Joline.  Yet 
officially  she  was  still  Mr.  Truax's  secretary;  she  took  his 

dictation  and  his  moods. 

[805] 


THE   JOB 

Her  greatest  reward  was  in  the  friendship  of  the  careful, 
diligent  Mr.  Fein. 

§2 

She  never  forgot  a  dinner  with  Mr.  Fein,  at  which,  for 
the  first  time,  she  heard  a  complete  defense  of  the  em 
ployer's  position — saw  the  office  world  from  the  stand 
point  of  the  "bosses." 

"I  never  believed  I'd  be  friendly  with  one  of  the  capi 
talists,"  Una  was  saying  at  their  dinner,  "but  I  must 
admit  that  you  don't  seem  to  want  to  grind  the  faces  of 
the  poor." 

"  I  don't.    I  want  to  wash  'em." 

"I'm  serious." 

"My  dear  child,  so  am  I,"  declared  Mr.  Fein.  Then, 
apparently  addressing  his  mixed  grill,  he  considered :  "  It's 
nonsense  to  say  that  it's  just  the  capitalists  that  ail  the 
world.  It's  the  slackers.  Show  me  a  man  that  we  can 
depend  on  to  do  the  necessary  thing  at  the  necessary 
moment  without  being  nudged,  and  we'll  keep  raising  him 
before  he  has  a  chance  to  ask  us,  even." 

"No,  you  don't — that  is,  I  really  think  you  do,  Mr. 
Fein,  personally,  but  most  bosses  are  so  afraid  of  a  big 
pay-roll  that  they  deliberately  discourage  their  people  till 
they  lose  all  initiative.  I  don't  know;  perhaps  they're 
victims  along  with  their  employees.  Just  now  I  adore 
my  work,  and  I  do  think  that  business  can  be  made  as 
glorious  a  profession  as  medicine,  or  exploring,  or  any 
thing,  but  in  most  offices,  it  seems  to  me,  the  biggest 
ideal  the  clerks  have  is  safety — a  two-family  house  on  a 
stupid  street  in  Flatbush  as  a  reward  for  being  industrious. 
Doesn't  matter  whether  they  enjoy  living  there,  if  they're 
just  secure.  And  you  do  know— Mr.  Truax  doesn't,  but 

[306J 


THE   JOB 

you  do  know — that  the  whole  office  system  makes  pale, 
timid,  nervous  people  out  of  all  the  clerks — " 

"But,  good  heavens!  child,  the  employers  have  just  as 
hard  a  time.  Talk  about  being  nervous!  Take  it  in  our 
game.  The  salesman  does  the  missionary  work,  but  the 
employer  is  the  one  who  has  to  worry.  Take  some  big 
deal  that  seems  just  about  to  get  across — and  then  falls 
through  just  when  you  reach  for  the  contract  and  draw  a 
breath  of  relief.  Or  say  you've  swung  a  deal  and  have  to 
pay  your  rent  and  office  force,  and  you  can't  get  the  com 
mission  that's  due  you  on  an  accomplished  sale.  And 
your  clerks  dash  in  and  want  a  raise,  under  threat  of  quit 
ting,  just  at  the  moment  when  you're  wondering  how  you'll 
raise  the  money  to  pay  them  their  present  salaries  on  time ! 
Those  are  the  things  that  make  an  employer  a  nervous 
wreck.  He's  got  to  keep  it  going.  I  tell  you  there's  ad 
vantages  in  being  a  wage-slave  and  having  the  wages 
coming — " 

"But,  Mr.  Fein,  if  it's  just  as  hard  on  the  employers  as 
it  is  on  the  employees,  then  the  whole  system  is  bad." 

"  Good  Lord !  of  course  it's  bad.  But  do  you  know  any 
thing  in  this  world  that  isn't  bad — that's  anywhere  near 
perfect?  Except  maybe  Bach  fugues?  Religion,  educa 
tion,  medicine,  war,  agriculture,  art,  pleasure,  anything — 
all  systems  are  choked  with  clumsy,  outworn  methods  and 
ignorance — the  whole  human  race  works  and  plays  at 
about  ten-per-cent.  efficiency.  The  only  possible  ground 
for  optimism  about  the  human  race  that  I  can  see  is  that 
in  most  all  lines  experts  are  at  work  showing  up  the  de 
ficiencies — proving  that  alcohol  and  war  are  bad,  and 
consumption  and  Greek  unnecessary — and  making  a 
beginning.  You  don't  do  justice  to  the  big  offices  and  mills 
where  they  have  real  efficiency  tests,  and  if  a  man  doesn't 

make  good  in  one  place,  they  shift  him  to  another." 

[307] 


THE    JOB 

"There  aren't  very  many  of  them.  In  all  the  offices  I've 
ever  seen,  the  boss's  indigestion  is  the  only  test  of  em 
ployees." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know,  but  that  isn't  the  point.  The  point 
is  that  they  are  making  such  tests — beginning  to.  Take 
the  schools  where  they  actually  teach  future  housewives 
to  cook  and  sew  as  well  as  to  read  aloud.  But,  of  course, 
I  admit  the  very  fact  that  there  can  be  and  are  such  schools 
and  offices  is  a  terrible  indictment  of  the  slatternly  schools 
and  bad-tempered  offices  we  usually  do  have,  and  if  you 
can  show  up  this  system  of  shutting  people  up  in  tread 
mills,  why  go  to  it,  and  good  luck.  The  longer  people 
are  stupidly  optimistic,  the  longer  we'll  have  to  wait  for 
improvements.  But,  believe  me,  my  dear  girl,  for  every 
ardent  radical  who  says  the  whole  thing  is  rotten  there's 
ten  clever  advertising-men  who  think  it's  virtue  to  sell 
new  brands  of  soap-powder  that  are  no  better  than  the 
old  brands,  and  a  hundred  old  codgers  who  are  so  broken 
into  the  office  system  that  they  think  they  are  perfectly 
happy — don't  know  how  much  fun  in  life  they  miss.  Still, 
they're  no  worse  than  the  adherents  to  any  other  paralyzed 
system.  Look  at  the  comparatively  intelligent  people 
who  fall  for  any  freak  religious  system  and  let  it  make 
their  lives  miserable.  I  suppose  that  when  the  world  has 
no  more  war  or  tuberculosis,  then  offices  will  be  exciting 
places  to  work  in — but  not  till  then.  And  meantime,  if 
the  typical  business  man  with  a  taste  for  fishing  heard 
even  so  mild  a  radical  as  I  am,  he'd  sniff,  'The  fellow  don't 
know  what  he's  talking  about;  everybody  in  all  the 
offices  I  know  is  perfectly  satisfied.' " 

"Yes,  changes  will  be  slow,  I  suppose,  but  that  doesn't 
excuse  bosses  of  to-day  for  thinking  they  are  little  tin 
gods." 

"No,  of  course  it  doesn't.    But  people  in  authority  al- 

[308] 


THE   JOB 

ways  do  that.  The  only  thing  we  can  do  about  it  is  for 
us,  personally,  to  make  our  offices  as  clean  and  amusing 
as  we  can,  instead  of  trying  to  buy  yachts.  But  don't 
ever  think  either  that  capitalists  are  a  peculiar  race  of 
fiends,  different  from  anarchists  or  scrubwomen,  or  that 
we'll  have  a  millennium  about  next  election.  We've  got  to 
be  anthropological  in  our  view.  It's  taken  the  human 
race  about  five  hundred  thousand  years  to  get  where  it  is, 
and  presumably  it  will  take  quite  a  few  thousand  more  to 
become  scientific  or  even  to  understand  the  need  of 
scientific  conduct  of  everything.  I'm  not  at  all  sure  that  I 
there's  any  higher  wisdom  than  doing  a  day's  work,  and 
hoping  the  Subway  will  be  a  little  less  crowded  next  year, 
and  in  voting  for  the  best  possible  man,  and  then  forget- 
ing  all  the  Weltschmertzy  and  going  to  an  opera.  It  sounds 
pretty  raw  and  crude,  doesn't  it?  But  living  in  a  world 
that's  raw  and  crude,  all  you  can  do  is  to  be  honest  and 
not  worry." 

"Yes,"  said  Una.  . 

She  grieved  for  the  sunset-colored  ideals  of  Mamie  1 
Magen,  for  the  fine,  strained,  hysterical  enthusiasms  of   j 
Walter  Babson,  as  an  enchantment  of  thought  which  she 
was  dispelling  in  her  effort  to  become  a  "good,  sound, 
practical  business  woman."    Mr.  Fein's  drab  opportunist 
philosophy  disappointed  her.     Yet,  in  contrast  to  Mr. 
Schwirtz,  Mr.  Truax,  and  Chas.,  he  was  hyperbolic;   and 
after  their  dinner  she  was  gushingly  happy  to  be  hearing 
the  opportunist  melodies  of  "II  Trovatore"  beside  him. 

§3 

The  Merryton  Realty  Company  had  failed,  and  Truax 
&  Fein  were  offered  the  small  development  property  of 
Crosshampton  Hill  Gardens  at  so  convenient  a  price  that 

[309] 


THE    JOB 

they  could  not  refuse  it,  though  they  were  already  "carry 
ing"  as  many  properties  as  they  could  easily  handle. 
In  a  characteristic  monologue  Mr.  Truax  asked  a  select 
audience,  consisting  of  himself,  his  inkwell,  and  Una, 
what  he  was  to  do. 

"Shall  I  try  to  exploit  it  and  close  it  out  quick?  I've 
got  half  a  mind  to  go  back  to  the  old  tent-and-brass-band 
method  and  auction  it  off.  The  salesmen  have  all  they 
can  get  away  with.  I  haven't  even  a  good,  realiable  resi 
dent  salesman  I  could  trust  to  handle  it  on  the  grounds." 

"Let  me  try  it!"  said  Una.  "Give  me  a  month's  trial 
as  salesman  on  the  ground,  and  see  what  I  can  do.  Just 
run  some  double-leaded  classified  ads.  and  forget  it.  You 
can  trust  me;  you  know  you  can.  Why,  I'll  write  my 
own  ads.,  even:  *  View  of  Long  Island  Sound,  and  beautiful 
rolling  hills.  Near  to  family  yacht  club,  with  swimming 
and  sailing.'  I  know  I  could  manage  it." 

Mr.  Truax  pretended  not  to  hear,  but  she  rose,  leaned 
over  his  desk,  stared  urgently  at  him,  till  he  weakly  prom 
ised:  "Well,  I'll  talk  it  over  with  Mr.  Fein.  But  you 
know  it  wouldn't  be  worth  a  bit  more  salary  than  you're 
getting  now.  And  what  would  I  do  for  a  secretary?" 

"I  don't  worry  about  salary.  Think  of  being  out  on 
Long  Island,  now  that  spring  is  coming!  And  I'll  find  a 
successor  and  train  her." 

"Well — "  said  Mr.  Truax,  while  Una  took  her  pencil 
and  awaited  dictation  with  a  heart  so  blithe  that  she 
could  scarcely  remember  the  symbols  for  "Yours  of  six 
teenth  instant  received." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

OF  the  year  and  a  half  from  March,  1914,  to  the  autumn 
of  1915,  which  Una  spent  on  Long  Island,  as  the 
resident  salesman  and  director  of  Crosshampton  Hill 
Gardens,  this  history  has  little  to  say,  for  it  is  a  treatise 
regarding  a  commonplace  woman  on  a  job,  and  at  the  Gar 
dens  there  was  no  job  at  all,  but  one  long  summer  day 
of  flushed  laughter.  It  is  true  that  "values  were  down 
on  the  North  Shore"  at  this  period,  and  sales  slow;  it  is 
true  that  Una  (in  high  tan  boots  and  a  tweed  suit  from 
a  sporting-goods  house)  supervised  carpenters  in  construct 
ing  a  bungalow  as  local  office  and  dwelling-place  for  her 
self.  It  is  true  that  she  quarreled  with  the  engineer 
planning  the  walks  and  sewers,  usurped  authority  and 
discharged  him,  and  had  to  argue  with  Mr.  Truax  for 
three  hours  before  he  sustained  her  decision.  Also,  she 
spent  an  average  of  nine  hours  a  day  in  waiting  for  people 
or  in  showing  them  about,  and  serving  tea  and  biscuits 
to  dusty  female  villa-hunters.  And  she  herself  sometimes 
ran  a  lawn-mower  and  cooked  her  own  meals.  But  she 
had  respect,  achievement,  and  she  ranged  the  open  hills 
from  the  stirring  time  when  dogwood  blossoms  filled  the 
ravines  with  a  fragrant  mist,  round  the  calendar,  and  on 
till  the  elms  were  gorgeous  with  a  second  autumn,  and 
sunsets  marched  in  naked  glory  of  archangels  over  the 
Connecticut  hills  beyond  the  flaming  waters  of  Long 
Island  Sound.  Slow-moving,  but  gentle,  were  the  winter 

[311] 


THE    JOB 

months,  for  she  became  a  part  of  the  commuting  town  of 
Crosshampton  Harbor,  not  as  the  negligible  daughter  of  a 
Panama  Captain  Golden,  but  as  a  woman  with  the  gla 
mour  of  independence,  executive  position,  city  knowledge, 
and  a  certain  marital  mystery.  She  was  invited  to  parties 
at  which  she  obediently  played  bridge,  to  dances  at  the 
Harbor  Yacht  Club,  to  meetings  of  the  Village  Friendly 
Society.  A  gay,  easy-going  group,  with  cocktail-mixers 
on  their  sideboards,  and  motors  in  their  galvanized-iron 
garages,  but  also  with  savings-bank  books  in  the  drawers 
beneath  their  unit  bookcases,  took  her  up  as  a  woman 
who  had  learned  to  listen  and  smile.  And  she  went  with 
them  to  friendly,  unexacting  dances  at  the  Year-Round 
Inn,  conducted  by  Charley  Duquesne,  in  the  impoverished 
Duquesne  mansion  on  Smiley  Point.  She  liked  Charley, 
and  gave  him  advice  about  bedroom  chintzes  for  the  inn, 
and  learned  how  a  hotel  is  provisioned  and  served.  Charley 
did  not  know  that  her  knowledge  of  chintzes  was  about 
two  weeks  old  and  derived  from  a  buyer  at  Wanamacy's. 
He  only  knew  that  it  solved  his  difficulties. 

She  went  into  the  city  about  once  in  two  weeks,  just 
often  enough  to  keep  in  touch  with  Truax,  Fein,  Chas., 
and  Mamie  Magen,  the  last  of  whom  had  fallen  in.  love 
with  a  socialistic  Gentile  charities  secretary,  fallen  out 
again,  and  was  quietly  dedicating  all  her  life  to  Hebrew 
charities. 

Una  closed  the  last  sale  at  Crosshampton  Hill  Gar 
dens  in  the  autumn  of  1915,  and  returned  to  town,  to 
the  office-world  and  the  job.  Her  record  had  been  so 
clean  and  promising  that  she  was  able  to  demand  a  newly- 
created  position — woman  sales-manager,  at  twenty-five 
hundred  dollars  a  year,  selling  direct  and  controlling 
five  other  women  salesmen. 

Mr.  Truax  still  "didn't  believe  in"  women  salesmen, 

[312] 


THE    JOB 

and  his  lack  of  faith  was  more  evident  now  that  Una  was 
back  in  the  office.  Una  grew  more  pessimistic  as  she 
realized  that  his  idea  of  women  salesmen  was  a  pure,  high, 
aloof  thing  which  wasn't  to  be  affected  by  anything  hap 
pening  in  his  office  right  under  his  nose.  But  she  was  too 
busy  selling  lots,  instructing  her  women  aides,  and  fur 
nishing  a  four-room  flat  near  Stuyvesant  Park,  to  worry 
much  about  Mr.  Truax.  And  she  was  sure  that  Mr.  Fein 
would  uphold  her.  She  had  the  best  of  reasons  for  that 
assurance,  namely,  that  Mr.  Fein  had  hesitatingly  made 
a  formal  proposal  for  her  hand  in  marriage. 

She  had  refused  him  for  two  reasons — that  she  already 
iiad  one  husband  somewhere  or  other,  and  the  more 
cogent  reason  that  though  she  admired  Mr.  Fein,  found 
him  as  cooling  and  pleasant  as  lemonade  on  a  July  evening, 
she  did  not  love  him,  did  not  want  to  mother  him,  as  she 
had  always  wanted  to  mother  Walter  Babson,  and  as, 
now  and  then,  when  he  had  turned  to  her,  she  had  wanted 
to  mother  even  Mr.  Schwirtz. 

The  incident  brought  Mr.  Schwirtz  to  her  mind  for  a 
day  or  two.  But  he  was  as  clean  gone  from  her  life  as 
was  Mr.  Henry  Carson,  of  Panama.  She  did  not  know, 
and  did  not  often  speculate,  whether  he  lived  or  continued 
to  die.  If  the  world  is  very  small,  after  all,  it  is  also  very 
large,  and  life  and  the  world  swallow  up  those  whom  we 
have  known  best,  and  they  never  come  back  to  us. 

§« 

Una  had,  like  a  Freshman  envying  the  Seniors,  like  a 
lieutenant  in  awe  of  the  council  of  generals,  always  fancied 
that  when  she  became  a  real  executive  with  a  salary  of 
•several  thousands,  and  people  coming  to  her  for  orders, 
she  would  somehow  be  a  different  person  from  the  good 

21  [313] 


THE   JOB 

little  secretary.  She  was  astonished  to  find  that  in  her 
private  office  and  her  new  flat,  and  in  her  new  velvet  suit 
she  was  precisely  the  same  yearning,  meek,  efficient  woman 
as  before.  But  she  was  happier.  Despite  her  memories  of 
Schwirtz  and  the  fear  that  some  time,  some  place,  she 
would  encounter  him  and  be  claimed  as  his  wife,  and  de 
spite  a  less  frequent  fear  that  America  would  be  involved 
in  the  great  European  war,  Una  had  solid  joy  in  her 
office  achievements,  in  her  flat,  in  taking  part  in  the  vast 
suffrage  parade  of  the  autumn  of  1915,  and  feeling  com 
radeship  with  thousands  of  women. 

Despite  Mr.  Fein's  picture  of  the  woes  of  executives, 
Una  found  that  her  new  power  and  responsibility  were 
inspiring  as  her  little  stenographer's  wage  had  never  been. 
Nor,  though  she  did  have  trouble  with  the  women  re 
sponsible  to  her  at  times,  though  she  found  it  difficult  to 
secure  employees  on  whom  she  could  depend,  did  Una 
become  a  female  Troy  Wilkins. 

She  was  able  to  work  out  some  of  the  aspirations  she 
had  cloudily  conceived  when  she  had  herself  been  a  slave. 
She  did  find  it  possible  to  be  friendly  with  her  aides,  to  be 
on  tea  and  luncheon  and  gossip  terms  of  intimacy  with 
them,  to  confide  in  them  instead  of  tricking  them,  to  use 
frank  explanations  instead  of  arbitrary  rules;  and  she  was 
rewarded  by  their  love  and  loyalty.  Her  chief  quarrels 
were  with  Mr.  Truax  in  regard  to  raising  the  salaries 
and  commissions  of  her  assistant  saleswomen. 

Behind  all  these  discoveries  regarding  the  state  of  being 
an  executive,  behind  her  day's  work  and  the  evenings  at 
her  flat  when  Mamie  Magen  and  Mr.  Fein  came  to  dinner, 
there  were  two  tremendous  secrets: 

For  her  personal  life,  her  life  outside  the  office,  she  had 
found  a  way  out  such  as  might,  perhaps,  solve  the  ques 
tion  of  loneliness  for  the  thousands  of  other  empty- 

[314] 


THE    JOB 

hearted,  fruitlessly  aging  office-women.  Not  love  of  a 
man.  She  would  rather  die  than  have  Schwirtz's  clumsy 
feet  trampling  her  reserve  again.  And  the  pleasant  men 
who  came  to  her  flat  were — just  pleasant.  No,  she  told 
herself,  she  did  not  need  a  man  or  man's  love.  But  a 
child's  love  and  presence  she  did  need. 

She  was  going  to  adopt  a  child.    That  was  her  way  out. 

She  was  thirty-four  now,  but  by  six  of  an  afternoon  she 
felt  forty.  Youth  she  would  find — youth  of  a  child's 
laughter,  and  the  healing  of  its  downy  sleep. 

She  took  counsel  with  Mamie  Magen  (who  immediately 
decided  to  adopt  a  child  also,  and  praised  Una  as  a  dis 
coverer)  and  with  the  good  housekeeping  women  she 
knew  at  Crosshampton  Harbor.  She  was  going  to  be 
very  careful.  She  would  inspect  a  dozen  different  orphan- 
asylums. 

Meanwhile  her  second  secret  was  making  life  pregnant 
with  interest: 

She  was  going  to  change  her  job  again — for  the  last 
time  she  hoped.  She  was  going  to  be  a  creator,  a  real 
manager,  unhampered  by  Mr.  Truax's  unwillingness  to 
accept  women  as  independent  workers  and  by  the  growing 
animosity  of  Mrs.  Truax. 

§3 

Una's  interest  in  the  Year-Round  Inn  at  Crosshampton 
Harbor,  the  results  obtained  by  reasonably  good  meals  and 
a  little  chintz,  and  her  memory  of  the  family  hotel,  had 
led  her  attention  to  the  commercial  possibilities  of  inn- 
keeping. 

She  was  convinced  that,  despite  the  ingenuity  and  care 
displayed  by  the  managers  of  the  great  urban  hotels  and 
the  clever  resorts,  no  calling  included  more  unimaginative 

[315] 


THE   JOB 

slackers  than  did  innkeeping.  She  had  heard  traveling- 
men  at  Pemberton's  and  at  Truax  &  Fein's  complain  of 
sour  coffee  and  lumpy  beds  in  the  hotels  of  the  smaller 
towns;  of  knives  and  forks  that  had  to  be  wiped  on 
the  napkins  before  using;  of  shirt-sleeved  proprietors  who 
loafed  within  reach  of  the  cuspidors  while  their  wives 
tried  to  get  the  work  done. 

She  began  to  read  the  Hotel  News  and  the  Hotel  Bulletin, 
and  she  called  on  the  manager  of  a  supply-house  for  hotels. 

She  read  in  the  Bulletin  of  Bob  Sidney,  an  ex-traveling- 
mant  who,  in  partnership  with  a  small  capitalist,  had 
started  a  syndicate  of  inns.  He  advertised:  "The  White 
Line  Hotels.  Fellow-drummers,  when  you  see  the  White 
Line  sign  hung  out,  you  know  you're  in  for  good  beds  and 
good  coffee." 

The  idea  seemed  good  to  her.  She  fancied  that  traveling- 
men  would  go  from  one  Wrhite  Line  Hotel  to  another. 
The  hotels  had  been  established  in  a  dozen  towns  along 
the  Pennsylvania  Railroad,  in  Norristown,  Reading,  Will- 
iamsport,  and  others,  and  now  Bob  Sidney  was  promising 
to  invade  Ohio  and  Indiana.  The  blazed  White  Line 
across  the  continent  caught  Una's  growing  commercial 
imagination.  And  she  liked  several  of  Mr.  Sidney's  ideas : 
The  hotels  would  wire  ahead  to  others  of  the  Line  for 
accommodations  for  the  traveler;  and  a  man  known  to  the 
Line  could  get  credit  at  any  of  its  houses,  by  being  regis 
tered  on  identifying  cards. 

She  decided  to  capture  Mr.  Sidney.    She  made  plans. 

In  the  spring  she  took  a  mysterious  two  weeks'  leave 
of  absence  and  journeyed  through  New  York  State, 
Pennsylvania,  Ohio,  and  Indiana.  The  woman  who  had 
quite  recently  regarded  it  as  an  adventure  to  go  to  Brook 
lyn  was  so  absorbed  in  her  Big  Idea  that  she  didn't  feel 
self-conscious  even  when  she  talked  to  men  on  the  train. 

[316] 


THE    JOB 

If  they  smacked  their  lips  and  obviously  said  to  themselves, 
"Gee!  this  is  easy — not  a  bad  little  dame,"  she  steered 
them  into  discussing  hotels;  what  they  wanted  at  hotels 
and  didn't  get;  what  was  their  favorite  hotel  in  towns  in 
from  fifteen  hundred  to  forty  thousand  inhabitants,  and 
precisely  what  details  made  it  the  favorite. 

She  stayed  at  two  or  three  places  a  day  for  at  least  one 
meal — hotels  in  tiny  towns  she  had  never  heard  of,  and  in 
larger  towns  that  were  fumbling  for  metropolitanism. 
She  sought  out  all  the  summer  resorts  that  were  open  so 
early.  She  talked  to  travelers,  men  and  women;  to  hack- 
drivers  and  to  grocers  supplying  hotels;  to  proprietors 
and  their  wives;  to  clerks  and  waitresses  and  bell-boys, 
and  unconsidered,  observant  porters.  She  read  circulars 
and  the  catalogues  of  furniture  establishments. 

Finally,  she  visited  each  of  Mr.  Bob  Sidney's  White  Line 
Hotels.  Aside  from  their  arrangements  for  "accommoda 
tions"  and  credit,  their  superior  cleanliness,  good  mat 
tresses,  and  coffee  with  a  real  taste,  she  did  not  find  them 
preferable  to  others.  In  their  rows  of  cuspidors  and 
shouldering  desks,  and  barren  offices  hung  with  insurance 
calendars,  and  dining-rooms  ornamented  with  portraits  of 
decomposed  ducks,  they  were  typical  of  all  the  hotels  she 
had  seen. 

On  the  train  back  to  New  York  she  formulated  her  sug 
gestions  for  hotels,  among  which,  in  her  own  words,  were 
the  following: 

"  (1)  Make  the  offices  decent  rooms — rem.  living-room 
at  Gray  Wolf  Lodge.  Take  out  desks — guests  to  register 
and  pay  bills  in  small  office  off  living-room — keep  letters 
there,  too.  Not  much  room  needed  and  can't  make 
pleasant  room  with  miserable  old  'desk'  sticking  out  into 
it. 

"  (2)  Cut  out  the  cuspidors.    Have  special  room  where 

[317] 


THE    JOB 

drummers  can  play  cards  and  tell  stories  and  spit.  Allow 
smoking  in  'office/  but  make  it  pleasant.  Rem.  chintz 
and  wicker  chairs  at  $3  each.  Small  round  tables  with 
reading-lamps.  Maybe  fireplace. 

"(3)  Better  pastry  and  soup  and  keep  coffee  up  to 
standard.  One  surprise  in  each  meal — for  example,  novel 
form  of  eggs,  good  salad,  or  canned  lobster  cocktail.  Rem. 
the  same  old  pork,  beans,  cornbeef,  steak,  deadly  cold 
boiled  potato  everywhere  I  went. 

"(4)  More  attractive  dining-rooms.  Esp.  small  tables 
for  2  and  4.  Cater  more  to  local  customers  with  a  la 
carte  menus — not  long  but  good. 

"  (5)  Women  housekeepers  and  pay  'em  good. 

"(6)  Hygienic  kitchens  and  advertise  'em. 

"(7)  Train  employees,  as  rem.  trav.  man  told  me 
United  Cigar  Stores  do. 

"  (8)  Better  accom.  for  women.  Rem.  several  traveling 
men's  wives  told  me  they  would  go  on  many  trips  w.  hus 
bands  if  they  could  get  decent  hotels  in  all  these  towns. 

"  (9)  Not  ape  N.  Y.  hotels.  Nix  on  gilt  and  palms  and 
marble.  But  clean  and  tasty  food,  and  don't  have  things 
like  desks  just  because  most  hotels  do." 

§4 

Three  hours  after  Una  reached  New  York  she  telephoned 
to  the  object  of  her  secret  commercial  affections,  the  un 
conscious  Mr.  Robert  Sidney,  at  the  White  Line  Hotels 
office.  She  was  so  excited  that  she  took  ten  minutes  for 
calming  herself  before  she  telephoned.  Every  time  she 
lifted  the  receiver  from  its  hook  she  thrust  it  back  and 
mentally  apologized  to  the  operator.  But  when  she  got 
the  office  and  heard  Mr.  Bob  Sidney's  raw  voice  shouting, 
"Yas?  This  's  Mist'  Sidney,"  Una  was  very  cool. 

1318] 


THE   JOB 

"This  is  Mrs.  Schwirtz,  realty  salesman  for  Truax  & 
Fein.  I've  just  been  through  Pennsylvania,  and  I 
stayed  at  your  White  Line  Hotels.  Of  course  I  have 
to  be  an  expert  on  different  sorts  of  accommodations, 
and  I  made  some  notes  on  your  hotels — some  sug 
gestions  you  might  be  glad  to  have.  If  you  care  to, 
we  might  have  lunch  together  to-morrow,  and  I'll  give 
you  the  suggestions." 

"Why,  uh,  why—" 

"Of  course  I'm  rather  busy  with  our  new  Long  Island 
operations,  so  if  you  have  a  date  to-morrow,  the  matter 
can  wait,  but  I  thought  you'd  better  have  the  suggestions 
while  they  were  fresh  in  my  mind.  But  perhaps  I  can 
lunch  with  you  week  after  next,  if— 

"No,  no,  let's  make  it  to-morrow." 

"Very  well.  Will  you  call  for  me  here — Truax  &  Fein, 
Zodiac  Building?" 

Una  arose  at  six-thirty  next  morning,  to  dress  the  part 
of  the  great  business  woman,  and  before  she  went  to  the 
office  she  had  her  hair  waved. 

/  Mr.  Bob  Sidney  called  for  her.  He  was  a  simple,  ener 
getic  soul,  with  a  derby  on  the  back  of  his  head,  cheerful, 
clean-shaven,  large-chinned,  hoarse-voiced,  rapidly  re 
volving  a  chewed  cigar.  She,  the  commonplace,  was 
highly  evolved  in  comparison  with  Mr.  Sidney,  and  there 
was  no  nervousness  in  her  as  she  marched  out  in  a  twenty- 
dollar  hat  and  casually  said,  "Let's  go  to  the  Waldorf- 
it's  convenient  and  not  at  all  bad." 

On  the  way  over  Mr.  Sidney  fairly  massaged  his  head 
with  his  agitated  derby — cocked  it  over  one  eye  and 
pushed  it  back  to  the  crown  of  his  head — in  his  efforts  to 
find  out  what  and  why  was  Mrs.  Una  Schwirtz.  He  kept 
appraising  her.  It  was  obvious  that  he  was  trying  to  de 
cide  whether  this  mysterious  telephone  correspondent  was 


THE    JOB 

an  available  widow  who  had  heard  of  his  charms.  He 
finally  stumbled  over  the  grating  beside  the  Waldorf  and 
bumped  into  the  carriage-starter,  and  dropped  his  dead 
cigar.  But  all  the  while  Una  steadily  kept  the  conversa 
tion  to  the  vernal  beauties  of  Pennsylvania. 

Thanks  to  rice  powder  and  the  pride  of  a  new 'hat,  she 
looked  cool  and  adequate.  But  she  was  thinking  all  the 
time:  "I  never  could  keep  up  this  Beatrice-Joline  pose 
with  Mr.  Fein  or  Mr.  Ross.  Poor  Una,  with  them  she'd 
just  have  to  blurt  out  that  she  wanted  a  job !" 

She  sailed  up  to  a  corner  table  by  a  window.  The 
waiter  gave  the  menu  to  Mr.  Sidney,  but  she  held  out 
her  hand  for  it.  "This  is  my  lunch.  I'm  a  business 
woman,  not  just  a  woman,"  she  said  to  Mr.  Sidney; 
and  she  rapidly  ordered  a  lunch  which  was  shockingly 
imitative  of  one  which  Mr.  Fein  had  once  ordered  for 
her. 

"Pretf  hot  day  for  April,"  said  Mr.  Sidney. 

"Yes.  ...  Is  the  White  Line  going  well?" 

"Yump.    Doing  a  land-office  business." 

"  You're  having  trouble  with  your  day  clerk  at  Brocken- 
felt,  I  see." 

"How  juh  know?" 

"Oh—"    She  merely  smiled. 

"Well,  that  guy's  a  four-flush.  Came  to  us  from  the 
New  Willard,  and  to  hear  him  tell  it  you'd  think  he  was 
the  guy  that  put  the  "will"  in  the  Willard.  But  he's  a 
credit-grabber,  that's  what  he  is.  Makes  me  think —  Nev* 
forget  one  time  I  was  up  in  Boston  and  I  met  a  coon  porter 
and  he  told  me  he  was  a  friend  of  the  president  of  the 
Pullman  Company  and  had  persuaded  him  to  put  on 
steel  cars.  Bet  a  hat  he  believed  it  himself.  That's  'bout 
like  this  fellow.  He's  going  to  get  the  razoo.  .  .  .  Gee! 

I  hope  you  ain't  a  friend  of  his." 

[320] 


THE    JOB 

Una  had  perfectly  learned  the  Boeotian  dialect  so 
strangely  spoken  by  Mr.  Sidney,  and  she  was  able  to 
reply: 

"Oh  no,  no  indeed!  He  ought  to  be  fired.  He  gave  me 
a  room  as  though  he  were  the  superintendent  of  a  free 
lodging-house." 

"But  it's  so  hard  to  get  trained  employees  that  I  hate 
to  even  let  him  go.  Just  to  show  you  the  way  things  go, 
just  when  I  was  trying  to  swing  a  deal  for  a  new  hotel, 
I  had  to  bust  off  negotiations  and  go  and  train  a  new 
crew  of  chambermaids  at  Sandsonville  myself.  You'd 
died  laughing  to  seen  me  making  beds  and  teaching  those 
birds  to  clean  a  spittador,  beggin'  your  pardon,  but  it 
certainly  was  some  show,  and  I  do,  by  gum !  know  a  travel 
ing-man  likes  his  bed  tucked  in  at  the  foot !  Oh,  it's  fierce ! 
The  traveling  public  kicks  if  they  get  bum  service,  and 
the  help  kick  if  you  demand  any  service  from  'em,  and  the 
boss  gets  it  right  in  the  collar-button  both  ways  from  the 
ace." 

"  Well,  I'm  going  to  tell  you  how  to  have  trained  service 
and  how  to  make  your  hotels  distinctive.  They're  good 
hotels,  as  hotels  go,  and  you  really  do  give  people  good 
coffee  and  good  beds  and  credit  conveniences,  as  you 
promise,  but  your  hotels  are  not  distinctive.  I'm  going 
to  tell  you  how  to  make  them  so." 

Una  had  waited  till  Mr.  Sidney  had  disposed  of  his 
soup  and  filet  mignon.  She  spoke  deliberately,  almost 
sternly.  She  reached  for  her  new  silver  link  bag,  drew 
out  immaculate  typewritten  schedules,  and  while  he  gaped 
she  read  to  him  precisely  the  faults  of  each  of  the  hotels, 
her  suggested  remedies,  and  her  general  ideas  of  hotels, 
with  less  cuspidors,  more  originality,  and  a  room  where 
traveling-men  could  be  at  home  on  a  rainy  Sunday. 

"Now  you  know,  and  I  know,"  she  wound  up,  "that 

[321] 


THE    JOB 

tV.-:  proprietor':?  ioieoJ  ::  z  k;t-;'.  is  or.:"5  t  :>  "ii;:: 
men  will  travel  sixty  miles  on  Saturday  evening,  in  order 
to  spend  Sunday  there.  Ton  take  my  i*M*minMn«fotiQmy 
and  joaH  have  that  kind  of  hotels.  At  the  same  time 
-omen  will  be  tempted  there  and  the  local  trade  will  go 
there  when  wife  or  the  cook  is  away,  or  they  want  to  give 


fike  ft  had  some  possibilities,*'  said  Mr. 
o:ed  for  breath,  after  quite  tie  most  im 
;"::  of  her  life. 


Xowthe  point  of  afl  this  is  that  I  want  to  be  the  general 
-.rer  ::  ;;::c.i:-.  ;:-.  ^.::^:r^:.5  c:  t.::e  Li^^  —  catering. 

i:-e.  ievrr^t::-.  and  s-c  ::-.  I'll  keep  CM:  •:  -':-.-?  d:^:> 
e^i  ;^:d  ~e'll  ~o:k  cut  tie  ::uyi:^  t-:.:e:ler.  You 

~  i:'s  ~;~~~  ~:;;  ::;.;k:  tie  home?  :;:  - 


X  ^  Fern  —  s-h  cir-o:.  ;,::.: 
~-  y;-.:  —  y  re-;.:.:   ::   ; 
I've  :>e^z  s--;  :;:,;.--  to  on  ^:.  o.:i  stui: 

tore  a  fitde.   And  plenty  othe  :  ;     s  ,    X  ;  w  y  o  :  ak  e  I  b  ae 

-•.;jrrr:hm-    ::   mine   :;    y;\;:  cmoe   ani   stucy   ', 

~i:n  y  ;-.:.:  r^v_e:  ;mi  -"e'li  :o..h-  o'_;u:  tie  ;':':•  .'.:  m-.   :  y 


§5 

tie  zez:.tio:i;n 
Sidney  and  his  partner.  They  wanted  her  to  make  their 
hotels—  and  yet  they  had  never  heard  of  anything  so 
as  actually  having  hotel  "offices"  without 


Th      -LI      :    -i  ye;  they  "ffidnt  quite 


THE    JOB 

know  about  adding  any  more  overhead  at  this  stage  of 
the  game." 

Meantime  Una  sold  lots  and  studied  tin*  economical 
buying  of  hotel  supplies.  She  was  always  willing  to  0> 
with  Mr.  Sidney  and  his  partner  to  hmch  —  but  they 
were  brief  lunches.  She  was  busy,  she  said,  and  she  bid 
no  time  to  "drop  in  at  their  office."  When  Mr.  Sidney 
once  tried  to  hold  her  hand  (not  seriously,  but  with  his 
methodical  system  of  never  failing  to  look  into  any  pos 
sibilities),  she  said,  sharply,  "Don't  try  that  —  let's  amve  a 
lot  of  time  by  understanding  that  Fm  what  you  would 
call  *  straight/"  He  apologized  and  aanuicd  her  that  he 
had  known  she  was  a  "high-class  gennwine  lady  all  the 
time." 

The  very  roughness  which,  in  Mr.  Schwirtz,  had 
abraised  her,  interested  her  in  Mr.  Sidney.  She  knew 
better  now  how  to  control  human  beings.  She  was  fas 
cinated  by  a  comparison  of  her  four  average  citizens  — 
four  men  not  vastly  varied  as  seen  in  a  street-car,  yet 
utterly  different  to  one  working  with  them: 


the  lumbering;  Troy  Wilkms,  the  roaring;  Truax,  the 
politely  whining;  and  Bob  Sidney,  the  hesitating. 

The  negotiations  seemed  to  arrive  nowhere, 

Then,  unexpectedly,  Bob  Sidney  telephoned  to  her  at 
her  fiat  one  evening:  "Partner  and  I  have  just  4*»M*4 
to  take  vou  on,  if  you'll  come  at  thirty-eight  hundred  a 
year." 

Una  hadn't  even  thought  of  the  salary.  She  would 
gladly  have  gone  to  her  new  creative  position  at  the  three 
thousand  two  hundred  she  was  then  receiving.  But  she 
showed  her  new  training  and  demanded: 

"Four  thousand  two  hundred." 

"Well,  split  the  difference  and  caD  it  foor  thoosand  for 
the  first  ear." 


THE    JOB 

"All  right." 

Una  stood  in  the  center  of  the  room.  She  had  "suc 
ceeded  on  her  job."  Then  she  knew  that  she  wanted 
some  one  with  whom  to  share  the  good  news. 

She  sat  down  and  thought  of  her  almost-forgotten  plan 
to  adopt  a  child. 

§6 

Mr.  Sidney  had,  during  his  telephone  proclamation, 
suggested:  "Come  down  to  the  office  to-morrow  and  get 
acquainted.  Haven't  got  a  very  big  force,  you  know,  but 
there's  a  couple  of  stenographers,  good  girls,  crazy  to  meet 
the  new  boss,  and  a  bright,  new  Western  fellow  we  thought 
we  might  try  out  as  your  assistant  and  publicity  man,  and 
there's  an  office-boy  that's  a  sketch.  So  come  down  and 
meet  your  subjects,  as  the  fellow  says." 

Una  found  the  office,  on  Duane  Street,  to  consist  of 
two  real  rooms  and  a  bare  anteroom  decorated  with 
photographs  of  the  several  White  Line  Hotels — set  on 
maple-lined  streets,  with  the  local  managers,  in  white 
waistcoats,  standing  proudly  in  front.  She  herself  was 
to  have  a  big  flat-topped  desk  in  the  same  room  with 
Mr.  Sidney.  The  surroundings  were  crude  compared  with 
the  Truax  &  Fein  office,  but  she  was  excited  Here  she 
would  be  a  pioneer. 

"Now  come  in  the  other  room,"  said  Mr.  Sidney,  "and 
meet  the  stenographers  and  the  publicity  man  I  was  tell 
ing  you  about  on  the  'phone." 

He  opened  a  door  and  said,  "Mrs.  Schwirtz,  wantcha 
shake  hands  with  the  fellow  that's  going  to  help  you  to 
\  put  the  Line  on  the  map — Mr.  Babson." 
I     It  was  Walter  Babson  who  had  risen  from  a  desk  and 
was  gaping  at  her. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

UT  I  did  write  to  you,  Goldie — once  more,  anyway 
— letter  was  returned  to  me  after  being  forwarded 
all  over  New  York,"  said  Walter,  striding  about  her  flat. 

"And  then  you  forgot  me  completely." 

"No,  I  didn't — but  what  if  I  had?  You  simply  aren't 
the  same  girl  I  liked — you're  a  woman  that  can  do  things; 
and,  honestly,  you're  an  inspiration  to  me."  Walter  rubbed 
his  jaw  in  the  nervous  way  she  remembered. 

"Well,  I  hope  I  shall  inspire  you  to  stick  to  the  White 
Line  and  make  good." 

"Nope,  I'm  going  to  make  one  more  change.  Gee!  I 
can't  go  on  working  for  you.  The  problem  of  any  man 
working  for  a  woman  boss  is  hard  enough.  He's  always 
wanting  to  give  her  advice  and  be  superior,  and  yet  he 
has  to  take  her  orders.  And  it's  twice  as  hard  when  it's 
me  working  for  you  that  I  remember  as  a  kid — even  though 
you  have  climbed  past  me." 

"Well?" 

"Well,  I'm  going  to  work  for  you  till  I  have  a  job  where 
I  can  make  good,  and  when  I  do — or  if  I  do — I'm  going  to 
ask  you  to  marry  me." 

"But,  my  dear  boy,  I'm  a  business  woman.  I'm  mak 
ing  good  right  now.  In  three  months  I've  boosted  White 
Line  receipts  seventeen  per  cent.,  and  I'm  not  going  back 
to  minding  the  cat  and  the  gas-stove  and  waiting — " 

"  You  don't  need  to.    We  can  both  work,  keep  our  jobs, 
[325] 


THE    JOB 

and  have  a  real  housekeeper — a  crackajack  maid  at  fort 
a  month — to  mind  the  cat." 

"  But  you  seem  to  forget  that  I'm  more  or  less  marrie 
already." 

"So  do  you!  ...  If  I  make  good —  Listen:  I  guess  it 
time  now  to  tell  you  my  secret.  I'm  breaking  into  yoi 
old  game,  real  estate.  You  know  I've  been  turning  01 
pretty  good  publicity  for  the  White  Line,  besides  all  tl 
traveling  and  inspecting,  and  we  have  managed  to  ha^ 
a  few  good  times,  haven't  we?  But,  also,  on  the  side,  I'\ 
been  doing  a  whale  of  a  lot  of  advertising,  and  so  on,  f( 
the  Nassau  County  Investment  Company,  and  they'\ 
offered  me  a  steady  job  at  forty-five  a  w^eek.  And  no 
that  I've  got  you  to  work  for,  my  Wander jahre  are  ove 
So,  if  I  do  make  good,  will  you  divorce  that  incubus  of  a 
Eddie  Schwirtz  and  marry  me?  Will  you?" 

He  perched  on  the  arm  of  her  chair,  and  again  demande< 
"Will  you?  You've  got  plenty  legal  grounds  for  divorcir 
him — and  you  haven't  any  ethical  grounds  for  not  doir 
it." 

She  said  nothing.  Her  head  drooped.  She,  who  ha 
blandly  been  his  manager  all  day,  felt  managed  when  h 
"Will  you?"  pierced  her,  made  her  a  woman. 

He  put  his  forefinger  under  her  chin  and  lifted  it.  SI 
was  conscious  of  his  restless,  demanding  eyes. 

"Oh,  I  must  think  it  over,"  she  begged. 

"Then  you  will!"  he  triumphed.  "Oh,  my  soul,  weN 
bucked  the  world — you've  won,  and  I  will  win.  Mr.  an 
'Mrs.  Babson  will  be  won'erfully  happy.  They'll  be 
terribly  modern  couple,  both  on  the  job,  with  a  bungalo 
and  a  Ford  and  two  Persian  cats  and  a  library  of  Wei1 
and  Compton  Mackenzie,  and  Anatole  France.  AE 
everybody  will  think  they're  exceptional,  and  not  kno 
they're  really  two  lonely  kids  that  curl  up  close  to  eac 

[326] 


THE    JOB 

other  for  comfort.  .  .  .  And  now  I'm  going  home  and  do  a 
couple  miles  publicity  for  the  Nassau  Company.  .  .  .  Oh, 
my  dear,  my  dear — " 

§2 

"I  will  keep  my  job — if  I've  had  this  world  of  offices 
wished  on  to  me,  at  least  I'll  conquer  it,  and  give  my 
clerks  a  decent  time,"  the  business  woman  meditated. 
"But  just  the  same — oh,  I  am  a  woman,  and  I  do  need 
love.  I  want  Walter,  and  I  want  his  child,  my  own  baby 
and  his." 


THE  END 


"The  Books  You  Like  to  Read 
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